You Saved Me
by windowbird
Summary: "I do care for her, John." His expression was impossible to read. "She saved me." shameless fluff-riddled Sherlolly smut. now with Molliarty smut!
1. her smile

Hello all! So, this is my first crack at a fanfic in dare I say YEARS. I'm quite rusty, so bear with me. This is also my first crack at writing anything remotely smutty.

Rated M for a reason. Violence, torture, forced sex, mild bdsm. Also plenty of angst and Sherlolly fluff.

Molly Hooper led a seemingly thrilling life. A successful and distinguished pathologist at St. Bart's hospital in London, her mousy appearance and shy nature had done little to hinder her academic and professional reputation. That is, until him. 

His dark curls; alabaster complexion and ice blue eyes left her breathless and jittery, effectively eliminating her professional reputation as a calm, collected and intellectually powerful woman. Day in and out Sherlock Holmes would barge into her lab, reducing molly into a quivering puddle. It was humiliating.  
>It was infuriating. But mostly it was cruel. <p>

Molly had a habit of wearing her heart on her sleeve. This was something Sherlock was painfully aware of and thus used to his advantage on a regular basis. To him, she was a mere tool. Useful and accommodating, in every way, ready at his beckoning call.

It was late one night on her walk home from another day at the morgue, when everything changed. 

Sherlock was on her mind, as usual. She kept her head down, lost in thought about their last encounter. 

Strolling past a dark alley, barely a side swept glance prepared her for the fist that immediately plunged into her thick, chestnut locks. Her head snapped sideways violently as her unknown attacker dragged her into the blackness before she had a chance to react in any way. A small squeal escaped her lips but was silenced as a hand clasped roughly around her face, completely covering her mouth. The other hand she felt had found her right wrist, twisting it painfully and pinning it to her back.

They drew backwards, farther into the darkness. Molly was frantic, and struggling as hard as she could. Her attacker was no more than a half a foot taller than her, so she prayed silently that a big enough struggle would dissuade him. Unfortunately she quickly discovered that his iron grip on her was too powerful, and she steadily began to tire from her efforts. 

His hot ragged breath on the back of her neck sent shudders down Molly's spine as the fight in her began to die. A familiar whisper found its way into her left ear, followed by a maniacal wave of laughter that left her paralyzed with fear. 

"Oh hi there, molly! It's been ages, hasn't it? Why don't we catch up?" 

Squeezing her eyes closed tightly, Molly began furiously shaking her head. The laughter stopped abruptly and she felt herself suddenly spun around and driven into a nearby wall, hard. The back of her head collided with brick and she gasped, dazed. Her eyes were slits, and everything before her was blurred, but slowly, Jim Moriarty's glittering black eyes and smarmy grin slowly came into focus. His hands were wrapped tightly around her biceps; pinning her to the wall. Her hands were slowly beginning to go numb from the pressure. 

"Oh I've missed spending time with you, little Molly." Moriarty hissed. His voice was... excited. Anxious, even. "So tell me my lamb, have you missed me?"  
>Molly's head had slumped foreword, her skull pounding in a way she had never experienced. Suddenly the palm of Moriarty's right hand collided with her cheek, sending waves of shock and startling pain through Molly's expression. She felt his powerful hands wrap around her throat, squeezing hard and began to thrash out, panicked and disoriented, but she wasn't strong enough. Moments later Molly was on her knees, fingers weakly tugging at his wrists. Jim Moriarty, the arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes was murdering her in an alley 3 blocks from her lonely single bedroom apartment. He wasn't supposed to be alive, let alone following her around London. Nothing made any sense anymore.<p>

Blackness began to ebb around the corners of her vision, when the hands suddenly released, allowing the side of her head to connect to the pavement. The last thing Molly Hooper could recall was Jim Moriarty leaning in close to her ear. "Send Sherlock my love..." he hissed, then stood, straightened himself and returned to a silent street, disappearing around a corner. 

Then there was nothing.

****

John was eating toast with jam over his morning newspaper 7 hours later when his mobile began to vibrate on the table. Sherlock was crouched in his usual position on his armchair, his fingers steepled together below his chin, eyes foreword, deep in thought. He brought his attention briefly to the conversation john had engaged in when he answered his phone. 

"My God, is she going to be alright?" his voice was thin, shaken, Sherlock noticed.  
>"We're on our way, thank you Greg." John was already on his feet and toward the front door, when he stopped and turned to Sherlock, who was gazing at him quizzically. "There's been, an incident" was all John managed. His throat was tight, concerned, emotional... but why? "Molly Hooper was found half dead in an alley this morning." <p>

Sherlock's mind stopped. Completely. It was an extremely rare occurrence, but he was speechless. In moments he and John were in the street, frantically gesturing for a cab. Something inside Sherlock had given way, although what it was, he wasn't sure. But it was bordering on crippling. He felt sick, a knot balled up in his throat.  
>20 minutes later he and john burst through the front doors of St. Bart's, where Detective Inspector Lestrade was waiting for them, his face ashen, lips pulled tight in a thin line of anxiety.<p>

"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded and found his voice to be odd sounding, unfamiliar to his ears. He was sure his breathing would return to normal as soon as they found her. 

"Follow me," Lestrade spun on his heel and led the two through a series of wide corridors, stopping some 5 minutes later. Gently he pushed the door open, allowing John and Sherlock to enter the room. He was gesturing with his finger to his lips for them to remain silent. 

Sherlock's eyes fell across Molly's tiny, crumpled frame and his heart stopped. His attention darted to the physical evidence of the abuse she endured that was exposed to free air. Her lip sustained a large contusion and she sported a black eye. Her head had been patched and wound tightly with gauze, indicating a blow to the back of her skull. He gazed lastly at her throat, which was black and blue with bruising.  
>"She was strangled..." John managed shakily.<p>

"Nearly to death. Whoever it was that attacked her decided she would live another day." Lestrade responded, his voice heavy. 

Both John and Lestrade suddenly snapped their attention to Sherlock, his face, mainly. They were attempting to gauge his reaction.  
>He remained silent, although inwardly he was roaring with anger. He didn't fully understand why, but he couldn't recall a time when he had experience this breed of infuriation. His jaw clicked which made him aware of his teeth grinding together. <p>

"Where was she found?" his head snapped up, eyes locking with Lestrade's. 

"Not far from the hospital. It appears she was walking home when she was attacked." 

"Please describe the full extent of her injuries." Sherlock's voice was curt, and he wondered why he resisted venturing closer to her unconscious form. Was it guilt, nagging at the back of his mind? He shook his head immediately. Couldn't be. Sherlock didn't feel guilt. Not usually. 

"Nothing too serious, she was lucky. Sprained wrist and a concussion is the worst of it. The back of her head needed stitches but she'll be out of here by tomorrow."  
>Sherlock's gaze never left molly's unconscious frame. His crystal eyes flickered in what John presumed to be some deep emotion. His mind was frantic. <p>

Molly Hooper, the mousy, plain yet endearing pathologist was in a position Sherlock couldn't bring himself to accept: frailty. He never thought of her as ... fragile. But he could see it now. 

Sherlock strode foreword suddenly, to John and Lestrade's evident surprise, and leaned over the tiny bundle, his grey eyes penetrating, inspecting every detail.  
>She was curled in the fetal position, her knees brought up close to her chest, arms hanging loosely over the side of the bed. Her large eyes were closed tight, eyes roving behind their lids, indicating a medically induced slumber. Her right wrist was wrapped in a tensor band, palm up, fingers pulled tight into a fist. The bruising around her left eye was deep purple, but not swollen. He leaned in closer to her face, listening to her breathing. It was ragged, uneven and shallow. Her attacker had strangled her quite brutally. The last thing Sherlock examined was the bandaging at the back of her head. It appeared the contusion was rather large, and had bled quite a bit. He shuddered suddenly, imagining her in some back alley, blood pooling around her head, and froze. This attack was meant to send a message, a warning. It was a savage beating, but not enough to fully incapacitate or kill Molly. She was supposed to live. But would she remember her attacker? The concussion that resulted from the blow to the back of her head could prove damaging to her memory. That paired with the unknown length of time her brain was starved of oxygen as she was strangled could mean she may not remember the incident at all. This realization left Sherlock conflicted. <p>

If Molly woke up with no memory of the attack, Sherlock would have nothing to go on. It would make finding the one responsible for this extremely difficult. And Sherlock needed to find him. There was a burning desire to wrap his hands around the throat of the man who had left her like this, broken and bruised in a hospital bed. He needed Molly. He didn't understand why but the idea of her dying was

absolutely paralyzing. 

On the other hand, Sherlock did not wish any more harm to come to Molly, whether that be physical, or emotional. Whether he understood it or not, she was an emotional person. The memory of the attack may prove to be quite traumatic, and could lead to a number of mental health problems. 

Sherlock pulled back abruptly, stalking back to the door, and bursting through it. John was hot on his heels. 

"What do you think happened?" he asked pointedly, struggling slightly to match Sherlock's pace through the fluorescent hospital corridors. "Just a random attack? A Mugging?" His inquiry was baited. 

Sherlock took it. "Obviously not, John. This was... personal."  
>John was about to ask how he could tell, but he decided against it. He had a feeling Sherlock needed a bit of silence to register his thoughts, and his emotions. They may have been heavily guarded, but John was one of the few who could sense what Sherlock was feeling.<br>Molly Hooper was another one of those people. 

Hailing a cab in classic Sherlock fashion, neither of them spoke again until they were comfortably seated en route to 221B Baker St.  
>Sherlock's hands were clasped tightly just beneath his chin, elbows resting on his drawn in knees. He was scanning through potential candidates. Men who may have something to say to him. His thoughts were constantly interrupted, however by the recurring image of Molly's face, calm and still, eyes shut tight. <p>

Then there were other images, memories of Molly, in the lab mainly. It was more of a play through of her smile. Her bright, adoring eyes, and her brilliant smile.  
>Sherlock shook his head abruptly. John cleared his throat. <p>

"Is everything alright, Sherlock?" his voice was careful. "Molly will be okay. She'll heal." He gave Sherlock a small, reassuring smile.  
>John didn't understand. Sherlock didn't really think he fully understood either. His lips pulled into a thin line. Instead of responding, he hummed his acknowledgement.<br>Mrs. Hudson was there the moment they entered the front door, her face anxious, her delicate little hands clasped together over her chest in worry. 

"Oh boys," she gasped, her voice thick with paternal inflection, "Greg just phoned, told me about Molly, the poor dear," she lightly touched Sherlock's arm above the elbow to express her concern and sympathy, a gesture Sherlock may have found irritating if it had come from anyone besides Mrs. Hudson.

Their elderly landlady possessed an almost motherly affection for the two of them, and Sherlock had grown quite fond of her in response, obviously. Sherlock gently grasped her had between his cool fingers and squeezed it reassuringly, given the mood he suddenly found himself in, he would keep their interaction brief, but courteous and affectionate. 

"Do not fret, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock smiled warmly, "Molly Hooper will be quite alright. Although I'm sure she'd appreciate your concern, there is no need to worry about her." His words were meant only to pacify Mrs. Hudson, although he found himself struggling to believe what he was saying. He gently released her hand and began up the stairs to their flat, as John motioned to embrace Mrs. Hudson and invite her upstairs for tea. 

"Shall I put the kettle on then, Mrs. Hudson?" John inquired politely as the two ascended the steps in Sherlock's wake.  
>Already in his room with the door closed, Sherlock collapsed into his bed, his eyes fixated on the ceiling. He could hear the quiet conversation John and Mrs. Hudson were having in the kitchen, along with the tinkling of glass, more than likely it was John clearing up his science equipment. <p>

"She's such a lovely girl, isn't she?" Mrs. Hudson was twittering, "seems horrible that she should have to go through an experience like that. My husband's sister was attacked as a young girl, much the same. She wasn't quite the same after that..." 

"I'm sure Molly will make a grand recovery." John's tone was confident, deliberate. "She's tougher than she looks." 

Sherlock groaned inwardly and rolled onto his side. Frustration was building at an alarming speed. Why couldn't he think? Every time he brought up a detail that could assist his thought process, it was all scattered by her face, her loving glances, and the way she lit up when he entered the morgue. 

Hours passed and Sherlock's eyes had not left the ceiling.

What was going on? 

Sherlock Holmes did not get distracted. Nor did he experience guilt, as he assumed that these images where a symptom of.  
>Was it guilt? Did he feel partially responsible for what had happened? Possibly. The feeling crept along the outskirts of his thoughts, nagging the back of his mind anytime his thoughts ceased.<br>Sherlock suddenly noticed his cheeks were flushed, hot. He reached up and placed his cool hands on them, and paused a moment to check his pulse. It was elevated. His breathing also seemed to be effected. 

He felt as though he may be sick and suddenly stood, marching out of his room and toward the front door. He couldn't stand his thoughts any longer, If he could figure out who had hurt Molly Hooper, if he could punish them, maybe this feeling would leave him alone. Revenge would distract him, for now. 

John perked up from his spot in front of the fireplace, clutching a book, and was quick to inquire: "Where are you headed now, then Sherlock?" His voice had pronounced concern. 

"Out for some air, John no need to panic," Sherlock's voice sounded bored, unfeeling. At least that was the tone he wished to accomplish so as not to arouse suspicion. What Sherlock really needed right now was a cigarette. 

He was out the front door and hailing a cab from the street in moments.  
>"St. Bart's, if you would," he muttered to the driver, pulling his collar up around his porcelain cheekbones. His dark hair had fallen in front of his icy blue eyes, only to be impatiently brushed aside. The ride to the hospital was painful. He knew it was after visiting hours at this point, but he needed to get in to see Molly. He needed information, anything to go on. Then he could get to work. <p>

The driver hummed his appreciation when they arrived as Sherlock pressed a 20 pound note into his palm and smoothly exited the vehicle. A short time later he was in Molly's room. 

"It's after visiting hours," The sullen secretary had snapped, eyes appraising him up and down. "Are you a relative? We only make exceptions for relatives and romantic

partners." 

"Of course, I am aware," Sherlock smiled at her. His charms did nothing for him with other women; he thought suddenly, only Molly. "I am Molly Hooper's... boyfriend." The last word was difficult. He hated the term, and the protocol surrounding it. If this is what it would take to see her, however, Sherlock didn't mind too much.  
>It was late, the lights in Molly's room were off. Sherlock padded silently to the edge of her bed, found the bedside light switch, and flicked it on. Beside the lamp sat an ornate vase holding an interesting arrangement of freshly cut flowers, with a card. This hadn't been there when he visited that morning.<p>

Sherlock snapped up the card and held it beneath the light.  
>Seconds later his eyes widened with shock. In elegant cursive the card read:<p>

_Hope you like the flowers, Molls. Picked them out special for you. Jim x  
><em>Hissing his distress, Sherlock bolted from the room, his knee length jacket billowing behind him. He approached the front desk in a rage. The woman he had spoken to earlier glanced up at him, clearly irritated. 

"What is it now?" Her tone was clipped. Sherlock ignored this. 

"Who brought flowers to Molly Hooper's room?" He demanded, seething. When the woman faltered he snapped a second time, "Who left this card on her bedside table. THE FLOWERS!" His voice was deep and loud, erupting like thunder. He shoved the card into the secretary's shocked face. 

"How the hell am I supposed to know!" She cried, "I work the night shift. I don't know what gets delivered to patients during the day!" 

"Useless," Sherlock hissed, spinning on his heel and returning to Molly's room. His eyes scanned the room, looking for something, anything that would indicate Moriarty's presence. It was spotless. The cleaners had come through not long ago, washing away precious evidence. Eyeing the flowers on the table, Sherlock approached the side of Molly's bed again for further inspection.

Each of the dozen flowers in the bouquet was different. A rose, a tulip, daffodil, daisy, a lily... they had all been chosen with care, neatly clipped and carefully arranged. The smell they gave off was a heavy perfume, a practically intoxicating odor.

A small sound pulled his thoughts from the bouquet. It was Molly, making strange noises in her sleep. Her eyebrows knit and she pulled her knees up closer, muffled squeaks of fear occasionally escaping her barely parted lips. "N, no! Please!" Her voice caught, it sounded weak, broken and petrified. 

It was a nightmare. Sherlock gently grasped molly's shoulder, kneeling beside the bed. He squeezed her arm and shook her lightly. Apparently that's all it would take to wake her. 

Molly's eyes flew open, wild with fear; her eyes locked onto Sherlock's and she immediately scrambled back, away from him, her speed fueled by her terror. In her desperate attempt to escape her fear and pain lent confusion and she slipped off the edge of the bed, her back and elbows hitting the floor first. She clasped her eyes shut tightly in pain as Sherlock bound around the bed, kneeling beside her, his eyes wide with confusion, and was that concern? His arms quickly slipped beneath her neck and knees, gently scooping her up and pulling her tightly against his chest. She was so light. Sherlock instantly realized she had dropped weight. At least 15 pounds... how had he not noticed this before? That weight off of her petite frame had surely physically altered her appearance. That was when he really noticed the dark hollows beneath her eyes. She was exhausted, weak and over worked. All of this before the attack? She was clearly at her most vulnerable, both mentally and physically. But how would Moriarty know that? And was it he who attacked her? Why should he waste his time on Molly Hooper? What was his motivation? 

Sherlock slowly lowered Molly back onto the hospital bed, ensuring not to disturb the back of her head in doing so. As he gently pulled away he noticed a tug at his collar. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the fabric. Sherlock sighed as he went to pry her fingers away, before gazing at her face. Molly it seemed was awake again. Her breath was ragged, eyes wide. She shook violently. 

"Shh, Molly it's Sherlock, you're safe." He whispered calmly. Molly coughed. 

"He visits me, Sherlock. When I'm asleep. I thought you were him, I thought he came back to finish the job." Her voice was quivering. Sherlock's brows knitted in concern. 

"He will never touch you again, Molly. You are safe now." His chest felt constricted. 

"Please don't leave," Molly begged. "I'm so afraid, Sherlock, please don't leave me." 

"Molly-" Sherlock paused, considering his response. The crazed fear in Molly's eyes made his throat clench. He did not wish for her to be alone in this state. She could hurt herself again. 

"Alright, come on, shift over a little." Sherlock was not accustomed to this kind of closeness. In fact he usually found the concept to be repellant. Molly scooted to the opposite edge of the bed while Sherlock slipped under the covers beside her. He had never slept with a woman before.

He rolled onto his side, his eyes meeting hers. 

"Thank you," She whispered. She was still shaking. 

"Close your eyes now, Molly." Sherlock breathed.  
>Slowly the fear began to ebb out of Molly's eyes, replaced by exhaustion. Three minutes later she was asleep. Sherlock absently brushed a strand of hair from her face and before analyzing the action soon followed her into unconsciousness. <p>


	2. cheers!

Hello all! Thanks so much for your encouragement and reviews!  
>Disclaimer: I own nothing!<p>

Molly awoke that morning with a start. Sunlight fell across the expanse of her hospital room, but the first thing that came into focus was the face of Sherlock Holmes. Their hands were clasped together tightly in between their bodies, and their foreheads were pressed together. Sherlock was still snoozing lightly, his breathing shallow and even. Molly could feel her cheeks burning, but she dared not move an inch, so as not to spoil the moment. 

She gazed lovingly at his face, longing to pull him closer. There was a violent tug on her heart as she recalled Jim Moriarty's hands clasped around her throat, his hot ragged breath heavy on her ear. "Send Sherlock my love..." the memory of his voice physically struck her. She began to shake.

A click of the door prompted Molly to squeeze her eyes shut. There was a murmur, and a pair of feet moving closer to her bed. Molly froze, and one of them spoke.  
>"Sherlock?" Oh, it was John. And Greg. Molly relaxed a bit. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, groggy and unfocused. His black curls were a mess, and he sat up abruptly. <p>

"Ah." Sherlock's voice was raspy with sleep. "Good morning John, Lestrade." 

"What the hell are you doing in Molly's hospital bed, Sherlock?" John's voice was incredulous. Shocked, even. 

"Now before you get the wrong impression, I laid not a finger on Miss Hooper." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. 

"Like we're supposed to believe that!" Greg spluttered, face screwed up in anger.  
>Molly suddenly found her voice and interjected.<p>

"I asked him to stay," Molly didn't recognize the voice emerging from her dry lips. Her throat felt absolutely dreadful. "he just slept beside me, nothing funny. I was frightened," She added lastly, shooting a glance at Sherlock's rigid back.  
>John's expression became sympathetic. He strode past Sherlock to Molly's bed side.<p>

"I really do apologize for the intrusion, Molly," He said gently, "how are you feeling today?"

"I feel fabulous, John," Molly laughed nervously. "It will be nice to get out of here, back home." Her attention suddenly snapped up, "What's happened to my Toby?" She asked, eyes full of panic. She was of course, referring to her pet cat. 

"No need to worry, I popped by this morning, your landlady let me in your flat to check on him and feed him." John grinned warmly. "He seems to miss you quite a bit, but he's doing just fine." 

Molly sighed in relief and beamed at him. That smile... Sherlock averted his eyes from her face, allowing them to settle on the bouquet of flowers still sitting on her bedside table. James Moriarty had sent Molly flowers. Sherlock's throat clenched.  
>Molly was halfway through thanking John for checking on Toby when he abruptly cut in, his eyes burning with intensity. <p>

"Do you remember receiving these flowers, Molly?" He pointed towards the bouquet. Molly froze, her eyes fixed on the vase. She slowly began to shake her head. 

"No," She whispered. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She was hiding something. 

"What's wrong with the flowers, Sherlock?" John demanded, clearly irritated presumably by Sherlock's manners. No matter. 

Digging into his jacket pocket, Sherlock snapped a greeting card and silently handed it to John. A moment later his chestnut eyes were heavy with concern, locking on to Sherlock's ice blue irises. Their shared moment was interrupted by Lestrade speaking to Molly. 

"We can have you out of here and back home within the hour, Molly."  
>"She can't return to her flat right now, she's coming home with us." Sherlock turned his gaze to Lestrade. <p>

"What he means to say is," John stepped in with the pleasantries. "Molly won't be safe at her flat. We know who attacked her, and he's very likely to try something again." Molly's eyes were darting between the three of them. 

"I won't be safe anywhere... he'll find me at your flat just as fast as at mine." Her voice was shaking. 

"Who will find you? What are the three of you on about?" Lestrade was exasperated.  
>John and Sherlock's eyes fell on Molly. <p>

"James Moriarty." She whispered.

Despite her awkward attempts to dissuade them, Molly found herself in a cab with John and Sherlock, en route towards 221B Baker st. the side of her head was pressed to the glass of the window as she gazed at the passing cars, buildings and people.

After about ten minutes, Molly felt Sherlock's eyes on her. Instinctively her cheeks flushed slightly.

She still wasn't quite to terms with the fact that he had spent the night with her, in her bed. They hadn't directed more than a few words to each other all morning, and now they were taking turns stealing glances.

Molly had needed support leaving the hospital, which John heartily supplied, but when she had tripped on their way out the front doors it was Sherlock who caught and steadied her, his firm grip on her elbow lingering long after she regained her composure. She could have sworn she caught a flash of concern in his eyes. 

"Greg will be around soon with Toby and some clothing." John was saying as they entered the building. Moments later they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who gently pulled Molly into a maternal embrace. Molly stiffened slightly in pain, but grinned and returned the hug easily. 

"It's wonderful to see you up and about, dear," Mrs. Hudson chirped. "and we'd love to have you here on Baker street, although I must warn you about the noise," Her eyes lifted towards Sherlock's face, "and the ghastly things he keeps in the refrigerator," She visibly shuddered. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that will be all." Sherlock gently but firmly grasped Molly's shoulders and steered her towards the stairs. She let out a small gasp of pain, and his grip instantly released. She smiled up at his stricken face reassuringly and was the first up the stairs. John hurried past her and busily began clearing the living room table of cups and saucers, jams and papers, presumably information about their latest case. Molly stiffened with realization. She was their latest case. 

"Well then," John clapped his hands together once he was satisfied with the tidiness of the room, "you can have my room, Molly-" 

"Nonsense, John. " Sherlock snapped. "Molly may sleep in my bed for the time being. I will sleep out here." John glared at him in confusion. 

"Really?" 

"Of course. Your bed is tiny, and rigid." Sherlock's tone was bored. "Hardly suitable, don't you think? Molly you're more accustomed to a softer bed, am I mistaken?" 

Molly spluttered, "Well no, but-" 

"So it's settled then." Sherlock's lips pulled into one of his classic dead eyed grins. John shrugged. 

"Would you like some tea, then?" He asked, his smile always made Molly feel more at ease. It was warm, and pleasant. She smiled back at him and nodded. The remainder of the day passed with little incident, besides Lestrade stopping by with Toby and a bag filled with her essentials. She thanked him profusely, which he acknowledged with a silent nod and a quick kiss to her forehead.

"Feel better soon, we'll fix everything in the mean time," he had muttered before leaving. When she returned to the living room she found john typing away on his laptop and Sherlock plucking at his violin, perched on his armchair. The atmosphere was absolutely electric. Molly always enjoyed being around John and Sherlock together; they always made a place feel more balanced, less hollow. She curled up with Toby on the opposite arm chair, the one John usually occupied and enjoyed their company in silence, sipping the tea John brewed her.

That evening Molly had refused dinner, and entered Sherlock's room with her bag of clothes, gazing around. His bed was large and cozy looking, flannel sheets and a black comforter tucked neatly around the mattress. The rest of the room was plain, simple, and clean. It reflected Sherlock perfectly. After she got changed into the closest thing she could find to pajamas, ( Lestrade had basically shoved drawers of clothing into a bag ) a tank top and a pair of boy shorts, Molly inspected herself in his full length mirror at the opposite end of the room.

The dark bruising around her throat was blatantly in contrast with her pale, delicate

skin. It was alarming to see her face and upper arms bruised as well, visual reminders of exactly where he had touched her. Her fingers suddenly found the back of her head, gently examining the stitches through her hair. Shuddering, Molly found the light switch and dove into the large, padded bed. Instantly the scent of Sherlock washed over her. It was musky, but crisp, and Molly found herself pulling the comforter closer to her body, breathing in as much as that scent as she could. Less than five minutes later sleep took her. 

*****  
>It was about three in the morning when the moaning started. Sherlock hadn't been asleep of course. Sleep was unnecessary. If he were he wouldn't have heard her, at least not at first. Gasping and choking sounds soon emanated from the room, followed by raucous sobbing. In a matter of moments Sherlock had opened his bedroom door, eyes falling on a once again petrified Molly Hooper. <p>

Her hands were unconsciously raking at her throat, as if she were being strangled. Sherlock grabbed her hands and shook her awake. As her eyes snapped open, tears erupted, flowing down her cheeks. 

"I'm sorry," She sobbed openly, pulling away and scooting to the other side of the bed. He watched her and said nothing. "When I sleep," She whispered, "all I can see is his face. All I can feel are his fingers wrapping around my throat, and his laugh..." she stopped abruptly. Sherlock sighed internally. 

"Would you like me to stay?" He offered, his face unreadable. Molly just nodded. Silently he slipped beneath the covers. After a few moments, he noticed Molly's breathing and heart-rate return to normal. The two lay in silence for a few moments.

"I'm sorry this happened to you." Sherlock whispered. Molly's eyes fixed on his.

"It's not your fault." She gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder, and smiled. "I'll be alright." 

"But you aren't alright now, are you." Sherlock's voice was tight. She wondered if he actually cared, but shook the thought away quickly. "You don't talk as much." He continued. "And you only smile when you think someone is watching you." His tone was plain. Analytical. Molly sighed. 

"It will pass. I just need time." 

"You need to be kept safe." Was his sudden retort. "And you need to sleep. Now close your eyes." 

John awoke that morning and greeted the dawn in his usual fashion, groaning loudly, cracking his spine and yawning every few seconds. He cautiously shambled down the stairs in his robe and slippers, when he noticed Sherlock was no longer asleep on the couch. He glanced towards his closed bedroom and shrugged, switching the kettle on and rooting through the cupboards for a mug. 

As his tea steeped, John heard Sherlock's bedroom door open slowly. He glanced up to greet a groggy Molly, but his grin disappeared as Sherlock followed her out the door. The two froze when they noticed John. Molly's cheeks flushed instantly.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said smoothly, walking past Molly towards the bathroom. When the door snapped shut she winced, glancing up to meet John's piercing gaze. 

"Sleep well?" He coughed after a few more moments of awkward silence. 

"I had another nightmare," Molly whispered. "He makes me feel safe, that's all." She sighed. 

"Would you like a cup of tea?" John inquired, a smile on his lips. Molly beamed back at him. After breakfast John and Sherlock departed their little home and hailed a cab. John had insisted on his attendance on what Sherlock knew instantly not to be a "grocery trip for more milk and jam." John wanted to talk to him about Molly. 

"Are you going to ask me or not?" he demanded after sitting in the cab in silence for ten minutes. John looked over at him, eyebrows furrowing. He seemed more concerned than angry. How strange. 

"Why are you doing this to Molly?" Sherlock's eyes flashed with something like indignation.

"I don't understand. I haven't done anything to her." 

"Sleeping in her bed, Sherlock-" 

"My bed, actually." Sherlock's voice cut through. 

"Sleeping in a bed with Molly Hooper was not a good idea, Sherlock." John's eyes were hard. "You'll end up hurting her again, and she's been through enough." 

"That is not my intention. I only meant to comfort her. She was – crying." Sherlock glared out the window, irritated. Why was this any of John's concern? Besides, he was only providing Molly with the physical intimacy required to provide comfort, nothing more. 

"She's in love with you, Sherlock. Don't you understand?" John demanded. "Anything you say or do to convince her you feel the same way is cruel. And I'm tired of seeing her in pain." Sherlock's head snapped around, piercing into John's, searching for... something. 

"John, do you care for Molly?" He asked quietly. 

"What!" 

"Do you love Molly Hooper?" Sherlock's tone had changed. There was a slight edge to it, now. John's mouth dropped, realization sparking in his eyes.

"No, Sherlock," he said calmly, "I don't. What about you?" Sherlock's features twisted in frustration.

"No." His head turned back and he continued to gaze outside for the remainder of the ride. The truth was, there was another reason why Sherlock had slept beside Molly the night before aside from the offer of platonic comfort. Sherlock had... enjoyed their first evening together. The warmth of her small body pressing into his chest, the sound of her breathing, the way she smelled... the sounds she made in her sleep... it was all very... comforting to him. Exactly why this was happening was beyond him completely. If this is what normal people describe as love? If so, how could it be with Molly Hooper of all people? 

Irene Adler had aroused Sherlock that much was plain. He had felt lust towards her, but not true affection. Not at all like the strange protectiveness he suddenly felt for the mousy pathologist. But why? Irene had all the qualities of an exciting, seductive and alluring female. Molly lacked in physical respects, fumbled through almost every sentence and blushed almost every time they exchanged words. At least, that was before the attack. Sherlock paused a moment, then remembered. Molly hadn't stuttered in front of him once since the incident. She was no longer afraid to show him she needed him. And she had been so brave, only submitting to her trauma and fear at night. During the day she was relatively stoic.

He hadn't received the usual blushes and giggles that accompanied her presence. She looked him in the eye when he spoke to her, most of the time. She was becoming less afraid of being herself around him. Maybe she just didn't care anymore.

Regardless, something had changed in the dynamic of their relationship, that much was clear. Sherlock was finding it difficult to shake the image of her face from his mind. The trip into the shop was a relatively short one, he let John deal with check out and the two headed back to the street. 

"If you care about her at all," John said suddenly once they settled into a cab to take them home, "you shouldn't lead her on." Sherlock's knuckles cracked loudly. John flinched. 

"I do care for her, John." His expression was impossible to read. "She saved me."  
>The quarrel ended that moment, just at they pulled up to 221B Baker St. Sherlock paid the cabbie swiftly and they exited the car. As they approached the door, John reached in his pocket for his keys. Sherlock glanced at the door and froze.<br>"You won't be needing those." John glanced up and noticed the door was slightly ajar. No damage to the wood, knob or lock, it was just open. They looked at each other dropping the groceries and hurtling through the door. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" John roared, banging on her door heavily. Sherlock paused for a moment when they heard the response, "Yes, John? What's the matter?" the door opened slowly to their smiling landlady. She had no idea what was happening.  
>Sherlock proceeded to bolt up the staircase to their apartment and burst through the door in the living room. <p>

"Molly?" He said loudly, eyes darting about the room, seeking signs of a struggle. He was met with none. Slowly he walked over to his room and pushed the door open. In the middle of his mattress there was a white envelope. Molly wasn't here. John was at his side a few moments later. "God we left her here ALONE when there's a psychopath on the loose and CLEARLY targeting her!" John was furious. Sherlock felt paralyzed. Molly was gone. He needed to get her back. 

"He's not going to kill her, at least not right away," Sherlock began, "he would have finished her off in the alleyway if he wanted her dead." John gaped at him. 

"Is that supposed to help?" His voice incredulous. 

"Of course. Why though, WHY is Moriarty so fixed on Molly Hooper, specifically, now?" Sherlock remembered his "Jim from IT" persona and relationship with Molly and shuddered. 

"It doesn't matter!" John cried. "If we don't find her and quick, her blood is on our hands!" he buried his face in his hands. "Well go on then, open the envelope and read what he's left us." He sounded defeated.

Sherlock slowly approached the bed and snapped up the letter into his gloved hands. He tore the top of the envelope swiftly and out slid a letter written in Molly's handwriting. It was distinctly feminine script, blotches and errors littering the block of text. She must have been terrified as she wrote.

Sherlock slowly began to read aloud.

"Sherlock and John,

This isn't your fault. I've been told that this is my goodbye letter so I just want you to know if I don't see you again that it's not your fault. Thank you for welcoming me into your home and your lives, and for being there when I needed you. He's getting impatient now so I'll just leave it with it was an honour to know you both. Don't come looking for me.  
>Sherlock, I love you. As I'm sure you're already aware.<br>Please look after Toby for me.  
>Cheers!<p>

Molly xx"

****

Molly Hooper's eyes opened to a blinding light. The pain that shot across her temple and head immediately following this forced her to close them again tightly. She groaned and attempted to roll off her back onto her side, her mind completely fogged. She soon discovered she couldn't move at all. Her wrists and ankles were restrained somehow. Her heart rate began to rise, steadily. Where was she? What was going on? Last she remembered she was in 221B Baker St. thumbing through Sherlock's book collection. 

"Ah Molly my pet! You're awake." The voice cut into her, striking panic and terror into her chest. That deep Irish drawl had haunted her nightmares, and now she was going to die. Jim Moriarty had her, and this time Molly had no doubt that he would kill her. It was only a matter of time. 

"How are you feeling, love?" The voice was closer now, and she cringed, feeling his hot breath on her ear. The pounding in her head made everything seem so surreal. But this wasn't a nightmare. This was actually happening. Tears began to stream down her face. She was lost. She'd never see Sherlock again.

"Oh, Molly? I asked you a question." Moriarty hissed, and Molly pried her eyes open, to find his black orbs piercing into her caramel ones. 

"My head..." Molly managed, not wishing to encourage his temper.

"Oh dear, I do apologize. That will be the drugs. Couldn't risk hitting that pretty little head again, not with you still recovering, could I?" He was using that voice. Jim from IT's voice. It was sincere, empathetic and soothing. She felt sick.

"I'll leave you to... become more familiar with your surroundings." Moriarty grinned widely, stepping away from her. "I'll be back once I'm finished up with work. Then we have some real catching up to do." He winked, and strode for the door at the opposite end of the room. "Oh, and just in case you were wondering, you belong to me now, Molly. I suggest you come to terms with that before our next... encounter." His eyes were roving up and down her restrained form. There was a glint in his eye she found utterly horrifying. A moment later he was gone, the door clicking shut after him. 

Molly instantly began to sob. She had no idea what was going to happen to her, but all she could think of was Sherlock. She longed to curl up, make herself smaller, but her restraints wouldn't allow it. She was a trapped animal awaiting slaughter.

She felt dizzy, exhausted, bereft of hope.  
>She belonged to Moriarty now. Until he got bored of her.<br>Her sobs echoed in the empty room.  
>An hour later she had exhausted herself to the point of sleep. As she drifted off, she silently prayed never to wake again.<p> 


	3. panic

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS!  
>They mean so much. You are all wonderful.<br>Here we are, part 3!  
>WARNINGS: violence, sex, dark themes. Molliarty smut!<p>

John had never seen Sherlock behave this way. It was frankly quite alarming. Molly was gone for 4 hours now, Lestrade had come immediately of course but there had been no progress made. They had absolutely nothing to go on. Moriarty had left nothing in his wake. All they had was Molly's letter. Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard a thing, obviously, and there was literally nothing Sherlock or he could find to hint at what had happened.

Sherlock was pacing at a rapid speed in the center of the living room. Lestrade and John had both decided to take a seat and accept cups of tea from Mrs. Hudson, who fluttered about the apartment straightening up.

"Would he have killed her, Sherlock." Lestrade asked slowly, eyes darting back and forth, following Sherlock's movements back and forth across the room. His expression was grave. John suspected Lestrade might have had a bit of a thing for Molly since Christmas. The two got along famously well and he seemed to relish

their inconsistent trips to the morgue whilst on cases. 

Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, palms pressed together just below his chin. He was in his "Mind Palace", or whatever it was he called it, John thought. He was looking for something. Suddenly he stopped dead and pulled his mobile of his chest pocket, flipping it sideways and sending a quick text.

_Is she alive? – SH_

The response came all too quickly. 

_Why would I break my brand new toy? – JM  
><em>

"She's alive, as I suspected." Sherlock's voice broke the silence. He hadn't spoken since reading the letter.

He sent another text: 

_Why her? – SH_

_Because I get jealous of other people's things. – JM_

_I don't understand. – SH_

_Her heart was yours. Now it is mine. I'll take everything and anything I want, my honey. In fact, I'm about to take something right now. I'll give Molls your well wishes. Time to break in the new filly! – JM_

Sherlock abruptly whipped his mobile at the wall, roaring in anger. The other three jumped. Practically wild with rage, Sherlock spun on John.

"He's hurting her, John!" Sherlock's tone was terrifying. His eyes shone with something John had never seen before. "If we don't find her soon, she'll break." John suddenly recognized what he saw in Sherlock's expression. It was desperation. It was fear. In an instant he had plucked his coat off it's rack and was pulling it on as he exited the room, thundering down the stairs. Lestrade and John shared a glance before hurrying after him, but not before John retrieved Sherlock's battered mobile off the floor and slipped it into his pocket.

"Where are we going?" John hollered after him as they burst onto the sidewalk, eyes roving to find Sherlock marching down Baker Street, his pace unmatchable. 

"To find her." Sherlock called back.

Molly awoke from her tormenting nightmare with a gasp, her chest heaving, eyes darting around. Not even in her dreams could she escape this place. A clap came from the opposite end of the room. Molly pulled her head up to find James Moriarty standing at the foot of the bed. His hands were clasped in front of his mouth, black, glittering eyes gazing down at her.  
>Molly never imagined Jim from IT in a suit. <p>

Now she never imagined James Moriarty in anything else. He was startlingly attractive, even now, as her captor. Molly wriggled uncomfortably under his gaze when she noticed his eyes raking up and down her body.

"Oh, Molly, you're so beautiful when you wake up, did you know that?" Moriarty's voice was thick with satisfaction, anticipation, even. Molly began to shake, her throat pulling tight and her heart racing. Her fear was consuming. Moriarty chuckled, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. 

"You're so afraid of me, aren't you? You can't stand the sight of me." Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he trailed his fingers up her leg, walking around the bed slowly. Molly froze as his hand reached her thigh. A moment later he pulled his hand away, reaching for her face and leaning in close. His touch on her cheek burned, and she winced, panic in her eyes. "There's no need to fear me, love," Moriarty whispered. "You'd be dead by now if that's what I wanted you to be." His lips pulled at the corners, revealing his toothy smile. "Can't you see you're special to me?"

Molly said nothing. She focused on her breathing. "You are fascinating, Molly Hooper." His lips were dangerously close to her earlobe. His hot breath made her tingle. Fascinating? Molly thought, that was a compliment she had never heard before. Sherlock had certainly never accused her of being fascinating. She closed her eyes tightly, mortified when she realized she was blushing. Moriarty chuckled in her ear. "You're so sensitive, love." He laughed, straightening up. 

"Stop calling me that." Molly froze as she realized that she had just spoken.  
>She continued in a whisper, "Don't call me that."<p>

Moriarty's head tilted sideways. "Look who has a voice all of a sudden? Why don't I shake things up a bit, then?" his hand dug into his suit pocket, pulling out a set of keys. He slowly unlocked the chains that were restraining her arms and legs. Then he took a step back. "The door's unlocked." He grinned at her. "What now?"

Molly was on her feet in an instant, barely registering the fact that she was still in her skimpy tank top, boy short combination. She wasn't just going to lie down and die, she thought savagely. It was time to do something about her situation. She leapt for the door, about a half-foot from the knob when strong arms locked around her waist, throwing her backwards onto the bed. Moriarty was quick and powerful. Molly was still weak, battered and bruised from their last meeting. If she were forced to fight him hand to hand, she would lose. Her only chance was to run. He stood in front of her, eyes dancing with glee. 

"I always did prefer my quarry free-range," He chuckled. Molly rolled backwards to the other side of the bed, scrambling for the door from a new angle. This time Moriarty grabbed her by her sprained wrist. Gasping in pain, Molly's fight died almost instantly. She spun around, the back of her other hand making contact with his face. 

His grip was firm and unrelenting. He smiled, seemingly having relished the pain in his cheek. His hand flew up instantly, reciprocating the strike. He then released her wrist and grabbed her around the throat. 

Molly was reliving her worst nightmare. She gasped for air and clawed weakly at his fingers, which only clenched tighter. "You are mine now, Molly Hooper." He hissed, eyes aflame. He released her just as she began to fight the urge to pass out. Gasping for air she collapsed into his waiting arms. He smoothly collected her small frame, gathering into his arms and pulling her to his chest, much the way Sherlock had that night at the hospital. She coughed into his chest, gasping and shaking violently. As he gently laid her on the bed, he brought his knee onto the mattress. Once his grip released Molly was crawling backwards, away from him, back to the solid wooden headboard. She pulled her knees to her chin, panting heavily and cradling her wrist, which was swelling rapidly.

Moriarty grinned, pursuing her across the expanse of the mattress, coming face to face. "Think about it, Molly." He began, voice smooth and robust, like melted chocolate. His quirky half smile never left his expression as he spoke, and his dark eyes remained fixed on hers. "Sherlock doesn't care about you. He never will. He uses you and tosses you aside." He shrugged. "Be mine and only mine, and you will never be neglected or hurt. I knew you were special when I first met you." 

"You used me to get to Sherlock," Molly spat, fear slowly fading into rage. 

"I'll use you however I please, gorgeous. " Moriarty's eyes darkened with what Molly was horrified to realize was lust. "You can either enjoy the ride or fight me. I'll have all of you regardless." Suddenly he lunged foreword, capturing Molly's mouth in his. Gasping into his lips, she unintentionally granted his tongue access into her mouth, probing and teasing her tongue with his.

Molly was frozen. She was not expecting this. His intoxicating kiss deepened, sensing her vulnerable state, before pulling away a few inches and whispering, "That's my girl." Slowly he pried Molly's knees apart, exposing her body to him. "Just relax, now." His voice was so seductive, so rich and lusty she didn't know what to do with herself. She simply stared at him as his eyes fixed on her panties. She could feel her cheeks glowing and felt a twitch somewhere... down there. Horrified at what was happening, she closed her eyes.

"You're so beautiful." She heard his whisper before feeling his hands slide slowly up her abdomen, under her shirt, the tickle of his touch making her gasp, eyes fluttering open as his fingers found her already peaked nipples. He squeezed them gently, rolling them in between his index fingers before roughly grabbing her around the shoulders, grunting his impatience as he swung her round and laid her flat on the bed, tugging the bottom of her shirt over her head. Instinctively Molly's arms crossed, covering her breasts. Moriarty chuckled, grabbing her wrist and removing her arms, pinning them at her sides with ease. He was hovering above her now, and she quivered beneath his gaze, doe like eyes wide with fear and something else. 

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He asked, pulling her earlobe in between his lips and sucking hard. Molly's breathing began to slow, her heart pounding. "Just admit it to yourself, Molly. You want me." He brought his head around and down towards her chest, small but pert breasts heaving, and released what Molly could only describe as a growl before pulling a nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, as his tongue swirled around. The twitch in Molly's groin had slowly developed into a strange heat, a burning need slowly boiling to the surface. Wasting no time, Moriarty spread her legs wide, to which she offered little to no resistance. She was letting him take her. And she was enjoying it. He inspected her panties, in the middle of which a wet patch had developed.

"You need me. " Moriarty reached beneath her and slowly slid her panties down her legs, yanking them away from her feet and onto the floor. His eyes appraised her up and down. Her pale ivory skin was flawless. Her pert breasts were small, but Moriarty never did prefer large breasted women. The curve of her hips was smooth and delicate, heart shaped leading into her milky thighs. She looked absolutely delicious. He licked his lips in anticipation before gently pulling her legs apart again, marveling at her perfect cunt. Unable to contain himself, he lay down between her legs, wrapping his arms around her thighs and pulling her lips open, revealing the soft pink bundle of nerves at the top of her pussy. Slowly Moriarty's flat tongue trailed up through her soaking folds, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. Increasing the pressure, Moriarty closed his lips on her cunt, tongue swirling around her hard clit. She bucked slightly, driving herself into his face momentarily before regaining control over herself. Moriarty acknowledged the motion as encouragement and drove his tongue into her cunt as deep as he could, allowing it to dart in and out of her, pausing only momentarily to suck on her clit every now and then. He grinned into her pussy as he felt her thighs clamp around the sides of his head, and her little fingers running through his hair. She was his now. There was no turning back.

Continuing to tongue fuck her, Moriarty's hands reached up and caught her breasts, pinching her nipples and tugging them, hard. Molly groaned, grinding her hips into his face. She was completely lost in him, back arching in pleasure, gasping for air and raking her fingers through his thick black hair.

Nobody had ever touched Molly Hooper like this before. All of her past sexual encounters had been with inconsiderate greedy men who simply got off and fell asleep. She could barely contain her arousal and excitement. It had been far too long since she last had sex, and the frustration she felt in Sherlock's presence had built up inside her for months.

Moriarty was sliding two fingers inside of her then, slowly building speed as he nibbled and sucked on her clit. An orgasm began to build from somewhere within, rapidly growing into an explosive release. Her hips must have reached two feet off the bed as she tightly clung to the sheets beneath her. Perspiration gathered along her forehead and after a few moments of pure ecstasy, she collapsed back down, panting heavily.

Moriarty pulled himself up, his smug expression evident as he sucked her wetness off of his fingers. "Delicious. It's really a pity Sherlock never bothered to taste you, Molls. " He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "You are positively divine."

Molly's eyes had closed and her breathing slowed. She couldn't believe what was happening. James Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal had just given her the most explosive orgasm she'd ever had. And it wasn't going to stop there, apparently.

Impatiently, he began to undo his blazer and remove his trousers. Molly's eyes roved down towards his pelvis, almost gasping at the size of his erection through his briefs. He was huge. 

Laughing at her expression, Moriarty swiftly removed his underwear and shirt, revealing his entire self. Molly only dreamed of what Jim would look like naked while they were still dating, nothing escalated past tender good night kisses, then. Now, Moriarty kneeled before her, sporting an enormous erection, and a confident grin. The expanse of his chest was broad and firm, hairless, (Molly's distinct preference) and flawless. His abdominals were chiseled into his pale complexion, which was remarkably close to her skin tone. His biceps were toned and built, which she found slightly shocking. She never noticed his arms before.

"Are you ready, love?" he inquired mockingly, positioning himself at her entrance. Without warning he slammed into her, filling her entirely. Molly's strangled gasp was quickly swallowed whole as his mouth crashed into hers, tongues swirling around feverishly as he fucked her, hard. 

Gliding in and out of her cunt, Moriarty's mouth released hers and bit down violently on her shoulder, eliciting a loud scream of pain from her lips. Her eyes were wild, torn between pain and pleasure as she dug her nails into his back, desperately clutching onto his strong shoulders for support. His teeth broke skin and she felt the warm rush of blood trickle down her neck and between her breasts. Moriarty was quick to drag his tongue between them, hungrily sucking the blood from her wound. Molly found his unsettling actions even more arousing, instinctively wrapping her tiny hands around his neck and pulling her small mouth and swollen lips to his, planting a delicate, tender kiss on the side of his mouth. For an instant, his brows knitted together, and affection flashed in his eyes.

Molly squeaked as he suddenly wrapped is arms around her back and easily lifted her onto his lap, never pulling out for a second. He crossed his legs beneath her and allowed her to wrap her legs around his back. Slowly getting the idea Molly began to move up and down, gasping and moaning as his length reached somewhere it hadn't before. It was bliss. Slowly her speed began to increase and she noticed his eyes locked onto hers, losing herself in his gaze. His expression was... _possessive. _It was terrifying. But it was also extremely sexy. She ground her hips up and down, his hands gripping her ass tightly as she bounced. Quickly a familiar heat began to grow inside her stomach again and just as she teetered over the edge, he reached up and caught her mouth in his again. Her orgasm rocked her entire body as she moaned into his mouth, tasting her own blood on his tongue. Jim's eyes rolled back in response as her body pulled him over the edge with her. She felt heat explode inside, filling her up as she collapsed backwards, heaving and shaking violently. Moriarty took a few moments to recover, panting on top of her before pulling out slowly and leaping off the bed. Molly's eyes remained closed as he dressed himself, dusting off the arms of his suit jacket and straightening his tie.

"Now wasn't that exciting?" His voice was smug. Molly ignored him, curling up into the fetal position where she landed not moments before. She heard his footsteps fade as the corners of her consciousness ebbed away. The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was the click of the door locking behind him.

Mycroft Holmes was enjoying tea and biscuits beside a blazing fire in his study, comfortably settled into his favorite armchair. He thumbed through the day's newspaper absently, sipping his tea when his door burst open, startling him enough to spill scalding tea directly onto the article he was about to read. Gazing up, his eyes met Sherlock's, face flushed and breathing ragged. 

"Unimpressive, dear brother." Mycroft muttered, folding his paper and rising to his feet. "To what do I owe the visit?"

Moments later John Watson and Inspector Greg Lestrade were at Sherlock's side, looking equally panic-stricken. 

"I need your help, Mycroft." Sherlock's tone was tight, teeth clenched. Mycroft allowed a small smile to play on his lips. 

"Really." He couldn't remember the last time his brother had asked for his help. It was strangely satisfying to hear. Despite the distance between them and the issues they had accrued since childhood, it seemed comforting to Mycroft to know that Sherlock occasionally still turned to his big brother for help.

"How can I be of service?" He inquired mildly, pacing around his lavish bureau and dropping the sopping wet paper into the trash before settling into his desk chair.

Silence followed for a few tense moments, Sherlock seemingly finding it too difficult to articulate his desperation. He couldn't help keeping his jaws clamped. John immediately came to the rescue.

"It's our friend and colleague, Molly Hooper." He interjected, looking towards Mycroft with imploring eyes. The stress the three of them were under was evident in all of their expressions, especially Sherlock's. It was alarming to see him so unguarded. It's not how they operated. It seemed unnatural.

"The pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital?" Mycroft assumed.

"She's been taken by Jim Moriarty." John explained. "We need your help to find her. " his voice was shaken.

Mycroft's eyes snapped to Sherlock's, who had pointedly averted his gaze. Was this truly the reason for his brother's odd behaviour? He dealt with kidnappings on a weekly basis, how was this case any different from the rest? Was it because he needed Molly Hooper to access corpses in the morgue? Mycroft thought better of the idea. Sherlock could use any other number of people to get what he wanted. This was something else. His eyes widened suddenly, realization dawning as Sherlock finally raised his icy eyes. He looked wretched. He looked... heartsick.

"Please." Sherlock let the word out through his teeth. It sounded weak and thin with stress. Mycroft nodded.

"I'll get started. " He sighed, instantly paging his secretary. James Moriarty may not have been a prioritized threat at the moment, but the mystery surrounding his apparent suicide and return from the dead made him highly suspicious. He knew he could easily have the proposed mission approved.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" The soft fluttering voice of his personal assistant crackled through the PC system. 

"Alice, dearest, be a lamb and patch me through to the secretary of defense..." Sherlock stiff shoulders instantly loosened. He turned on his heel and blew past John and Lestrade, opening the door to leave. Mycroft glanced up at him and stopped mid instruction. "Sherlock, I'll text you the address as soon as I get word. Promise me not to get yourself killed over this." 

Sherlock nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Mycroft." He said flatly, although he physically expressed his gratitude with a quick, sincere smile.

He then dashed out of the building, the two other men hot on his heels, and hailed a cab.

"Homeless network next?" John asked as the cab peeled away from the sidewalk and into traffic. Sherlock nodded, gazing out the window, as usual. John felt Sherlock's phone vibrate in his pocket, slowly, so as not to attract his attention he pulled it prom his pocket and flipped it open, reading the new text. What he read nearly made him sick.

_You should hear the noises she makes, Sherlock. Music to my ears. –JM _

John was rigid at Sherlock's shoulder. Noticing the change in the atmosphere instantly, he pulled his gaze from the window, fixing them onto his mobile in John's hands. Quickly snapping the phone up into his slender fingers, Sherlock snapped it open, reading the text in an instant. John waited for the reaction, which was bound to erupt at any moment.

"We have to find her, John" Was all he said, his voice oddly strangled.

John gently pulled the mobile from Sherlock's weak grip and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"We will." 

"John, I... I need her. " His admission astonished even himself. Up to that point he hadn't fully accepted his affection for Molly, but the thought of Moriarty forcing himself on her, on _his_ Molly, hurting her, frightening her... his mind reeled with nausea and he struggled to keep his physical composure.  
>Sherlock cared. He cared <em>deeply.<em> 

After all, it was she who helped him execute his elaborate fake suicide, she who saved him, John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade by being there, and being who she was. Her intelligence and skill is what made Molly different from the other women he had eyed before. Sherlock loathed the ordinary, and Molly certainly wasn't that. She may have been fluttery, childish and naïveté, but she wasn't ordinary. She loved her work, and she excelled in it. It was a position Sherlock could easily relate to. His work was his life. He needed to be kept guessing, his mind constantly operating, or else he'd go insane. 

Molly gave Sherlock a few feelings, but boredom wasn't one of them. She kept him on his toes, confusing him with her actions, her words and her purely innocent adoration of him. She was a mystery. One he had been aching to solve.

But now she was in serious danger, and they may never see each other again. Sherlock was shocked to find idea of Molly never knowing his true feelings for her absolutely heart wrenching. He couldn't allow it.  
>He would find her, he would save her, and he would let her know exactly her position of importance in his life.<p>

Sherlock could feel John's eyes burning into the back of his head.

"We will find her, Sherlock." His voice was warm, reassuring. He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder and released him, calling to the cab to pull over. 

"Here's great, thanks." 

As the cab pulled in along the sidewalk Sherlock took a quick moment to regain his senses. This indulgent emotional crap was only slowing him down. He needed his thoughts clear and mechanical, like always. Pulling out of the cab while John paid the driver, he straightened his collar and cracked his neck, shaking off what little feeling remained. 

"So, what exactly are we doing?" Lestrade asked, stepping out of the car. 

"Homeless network." Sherlock stated simply, approaching a dodgy looking overpass. 

"What is he on about?" Lestrade turned to John expectantly. He smiled weakly.

"Apparently the homeless act as Sherlock's eyes and ears on the streets of London," John explained, quickening his pace to keep up with Sherlock's confident strides.

"He pays them for information. They may know something about Moriarty, like where to find him. It's really quite useful."

"Paper and a pen." Sherlock stopped suddenly, holding a lithe hand up expectantly. John began rooting in his pockets, but Lestrade was quick to remove a small note pad and pen out of his jacket's breast pocket and hand it over. Sherlock swiftly scratched something onto the note pad, ripped the paper and handed the pad and pen back before folding it inside a 50 quid note and striding foreword into the graffiti strewn tunnel.

About 20 feet in a bundle was visible, leaning against the wall, hunched foreword. As the three approached a voice emerged from within what appeared to be a sleeping bag. 

"Spare a few quid, gentlemen?" The face that emerged was that of a scruffy twenty something male. His voice was ragged, face hollow with hunger. Sherlock knelt down beside him and whispered something into the man's ear before pressing the cash into his palm. As he pulled bag, the young man smiled. "Cheers," he rasped as they turned and exited the tunnel.

"Now what?" Lestrade inquired as they returned to their cab.

"Now we wait." John shrugged.

"I may as well go to Scotland Yard, then," Lestrade muttered. "I'll file a missing person's report." Sherlock snorted. 

"Just keep your mindless underlings out of my way, Lestrade." John frowned. 

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock. We need all the help we can get, and you know it. This is about bringing Molly home safe." He scolded.

"I'll get my best on it," Lestrade assured. Sherlock bit back a grimace. Amateurs. He was in no mood to deal with Donovan and Anderson. But John was correct, time was of the essence and this wasn't about him. He could deal with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum if he needed to.

_Stay strong, Molly Hooper._ He thought desperately. _Just hold on. I'm coming._


	4. bath time

APOLOGIES FOR THE LATE UPDATE  
>my schedule has been a little nuts lately, but I bring you an offering in repentance!<br>YOUR COMMENTS MEAN THE WORLD TO ME.  
>warnings: smutty. Molliarty bathroom shenanigans. <p>

Molly Hooper wanted to die. She had betrayed the man she loved, in the worst possible way. She slept with his arch nemesis. 

Could he look at her again without thinking about it? Well, if she even walked away from this ordeal alive. If she ever saw him again, or even heard his voice... 

The thing about it that frightened Molly the most was the fact that... she had enjoyed it. Moriarty had re-awoken the sexual appetite in her, the ferociously passionate vixen that lurked ever just beneath her shy, submissive exterior. Their animalistic coupling was exactly what she needed, what she desired for longer than she could remember.

But this is not what she wanted. As much as she had enjoyed being at the mercy of the Consulting Criminal, whose brilliance was only matched by Sherlock Holmes, Molly couldn't help feeling that she had betrayed Sherlock in some way. It was completely irrational, but she couldn't shake the nausea that settled at the pit of her stomach, or the image of Sherlock's face from her mind. 

She wondered absently if anyone was actually looking for her. Surely they would have noticed her missing by now.

Sherlock was brilliant. She trusted him. If she just managed to stay alive, and cling to her sanity in the meantime, there was hope. If anybody could save her, it would be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Molly briefly recalled the conversation she had with Sherlock that night as she was finishing up her work and leaving the morgue.

"You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." 

His words had left her virtually speechless. But then it happened. Then she spoke, her voice uneven, but resolute. "What do you need?" She asked. Completely and utterly prepared to do anything, be anyone, just for him. She remembered the consuming need to make everything all right, and she did, in a manner of speaking, anyway. She was there. She was his secret weapon, and together they outsmarted James Moriarty and saved three lives. She had been brave, steadfast and strong. Now what had she become? Moriarty's toy? This was unacceptable. 

Molly Hooper may be in love with Sherlock Holmes, but she certainly didn't belong to him. Nor did she belong to Jim Moriarty. She couldn't let him break her down. She was stronger than that. _If I'm going to die, _the thought savagely, _I'm taking him with me._ If it were the last thing she did, she would kill Moriarty. Or at least they could say that she tried, that she fought her hardest to keep him from hurting anyone else.

Molly curled up beneath the covers of the bed, gritting her teeth at the pain in her wrist. The swelling she was experiencing prior to Moriarty's personal attack had since doubled after his rough treatment. Physical resistance was nothing she could manage given her current state, she reflected. She was absolutely battered. Every inch of her was aflame with each movement. If she wanted to get out of this situation alive and possibly take Moriarty down in the process, she needed to recover. She needed him to start believing that she was his. 

He already underestimated her. He thought of her the same way Sherlock did. Poor Molly, socially awkward, bumbling and clumsy Molly, who tripped over her words, was locked in the throes of unrequited love with an ill-tempered sociopath, and returned home from her freakish occupation every night to her cat and her mediocre American television.

None of these facts made Molly a weak person. They simply made her appear weak. Grinning to herself, she realized her situation might not be so hopeless after all. If Moriarty believed her to be broken, he may let his guard down. She just needed to wait for his first mistake.

Several hours passed before the villain returned to her room. She heard the clicking of his shoes approaching, and as the lock clicked and the door slowly opened, Molly bundled herself in the sheets of the bed, back to the wall.

Moriarty grinned and locked the door behind him. He was carrying a tray with food.

"Hungry, pet?" He asked affectionately, sitting at the edge of the bed and placing the tray in front of her. The scene resembled a new owner attempting to gain the trust of an abused dog. Molly's lip curled in disgust at the thought.

Instead of responding, she glanced down at the platter before her, then back into his face. His eyes were bright with anticipation, and for a moment he seemed excited. Molly decided instantly not to put anything he handed her into her mouth. For all she knew the food could be laced with something, after all he had only recently drugged her.

The meal was small but appealing, obviously not prepared by Moriarty himself. Or so she assumed. It consisted of a few small potatoes, salmon and vegetables. The small plate steamed with heat and smelled delicious. Molly nearly began salivating.  
>"Well then, dig in!" Moriarty pushed the plate a little closer to her swaddled frame. He sounded cheerful, but there was something else in his tone. It was threatening.<p>

Molly decided to eat some, simply to appease him, although also thoroughly considered spitting in his face, which given the circumstances would have been a bad call on her part. 

Slowly Molly retrieved the fork from the tray and impaled a piece of salmon and some vegetables. Hesitantly she brought the steaming forkful to her mouth, and after a calming breath, devoured it.

It was delicious. Molly nearly gasped in appreciation. Noticing the pleasure in her expression, Moriarty lifted an eyebrow in amusement. 

"I worked as a chef in Venice, for a time." He mused, catching her off-guard. "Learned a few things, mainly how to feed myself properly."

Molly caught herself staring at his mouth. And his jaw line. An erotic image of him naked in the kitchen aside from a "KISS THE COOK" apron stilled her train of thought completely. She merely nodded, chewing slowly.

"Doubtless you are in need of the loo and a hot shower." Moriarty addressed suddenly, eyeing her tangled mass of hair and her gaunt, bruised face. "You look positively haunted, Miss Hooper."

In an instant, Molly found herself yet again within his tight embrace, pulled into his chest. She was appalled several moments later when she realized she was sniffing his chest, and relishing it. His musk was spicy and intense, not unlike Sherlock's scent. Molly nearly cursed out loud. She needed to stop making connections between Sherlock and Moriarty, it could be dangerous to think that way. Still, she thought absently as he carried her through darkened hallways and up a flight of stairs, he smelled incredible.

When they arrived at their planned destination, a large, empirical looking bathroom, he deftly lowered her to her feet. 

"Strip." Came the blunt instruction. Molly spun to face him, wide – eyed. There was no indication to be found that he would be leaving her alone. He simply stood in front of the door, watching her expectantly with those black eyes. "I'd suggest you be quick." Was his further incentive, pulling a switchblade from his back pocket. 

Blushing furiously, Molly stripped, pulling her flimsy tank top and boy short panties off and tossing them aside. She turned her back to him, and with as much confidence she could exude in her situation strode over the claw-footed tub and hopped in. Truth be told, Molly had craved a shower. Although Moriarty's presence was unsettling, she still relished the stream of hot water that collided with her face when she finished adjusting the temperature and turned on the showerhead.

Molly stood beneath the steady stream of steaming water, allowing it to thunder along her shoulders and at the back of her neck. God, the heat felt good on her muscles. Snatching up a floral scented body wash from the ledge of the shower, Molly inspected the label momentarily before lathering herself up in the sweet smelling bubbles, and working a dollop of shampoo into her thick brunette locks. All the cleansing products in the shower were meant for women, she suddenly realized, and she nearly gasped with delight mid- rinse when she noticed a sleek looking women's razor.

Ten minutes later Molly emerged from behind the shower curtain, greeted by a beaming Moriarty.

"Good girl." He breathed smugly, eyes roving up and down her moisture slicked body. He clicked his tongue in disapproval a moment later. "Oh, tut tut, my dove. You missed a spot." His eyes landed directly on her groin. "It's a personal preference thing, I'm afraid," He grinned mischievously, approaching her slowly. Molly kept her mouth shut tight and instinctively stepped back a few inches as he advanced. Gently, Moriarty pushed her shoulders down on the edge of the tub, forcing her to sit on the porcelain lip. The coldness of the tub on her bare ass made her flinch in discomfort, glaring up into Moriarty's eyes, all the while attempting to hide the venomous loathing she harbored for him. The entire ordeal so far had been humiliating, but what was happening right now was something different.

Moriarty spread her legs easily, exposing her the same way he had just hours prior. Molly didn't shave herself bare. Never had. She trimmed and up kept her pubic situation regularly, but the bald eagle was never a look she found appealing. It made her feel like a child.

Retrieving the bottle of shaving cream Molly had just used for her legs and underarms, Moriarty knelt between her knees, all the while grinning at her smugly.

"Try not to wiggle too much," He whispered before slathering the shaving cream in his hands, wasting no time in pressing the thick white foam directly onto her brunette mound.

Molly closed her eyes, trying to imagine she was somewhere else, with someone else. She chewed her lip when she realized she knew exactly who she wished was doing this to her. Sherlock Holmes, of course.

Moriarty paused a moment when he noticed her serene expression, obviously mistaking it for something it clearly wasn't. It couldn't be arousal, could it?

He gently gripped her bottom, dragging it foreword a bit before spreading her legs even wider. Molly grasped the lip of the bathtub to maintain her balance, eyes opening wide and gazing down at him settled right before her shaving cream smothered groin. He continued to lather the cream into her mound, noting her increasing arousal before reaching for the razor, rinsing it and slowly dragging it down along her bikini line.

Molly struggled to remain focused. She was terrified of exposing evidence of her mounting excitement at his touch, at her vulnerable position before him, completely at his mercy. Screwing her eyes closed, she imagined it was the top of Sherlock's black, curly haired head between her legs, his stormy grey eyes gazing at her centre amusedly while he gently shaved her.

She could feel a sudden tight clenching in her stomach, followed by a rush of heat. Her eyes flew open. Molly was becoming extremely aroused.

Moriarty shaved along the delicate outer lips, tugging at her folds occasionally to provide a smoother glide. Sitting back abruptly, his eyes found hers half lidded with evident arousal. Her grip on the tub had gone slack, and the heat that radiated around her core clearly signified her submissive state. Her eyes closed again and she gasped, as he carefully dabbed and wiped away the remaining traces of shaving cream and hair with a warm damp cloth. 

"Excited again, are we." He purred, licking his full lips, eyes darkening with hunger. His wolfish expression only furthered Molly's humiliating desire for him. She was losing complete control of her thoughts. Slowly Moriarty straightened up high enough to whisper in her ear. "You are _insatiable,_ Molly Hooper."

Game over.

Without thinking, Molly had savagely captured Moriarty's lips with her own. He chuckled into her hot, desperately probing mouth and raised a hand to her right breast, pinching her nipple and tugging it gently.

Molly had never felt this overcome by lust before. Neither had she ever been this aggressive, with any of her past partners. The Molly she knew was tender, nervous and selfless in bed. The Molly that existed now was hungrily devouring the criminal mastermind's face; naked body pulled close, legs wrapped around his back for support as one of her hands crept down her stomach to investigate her newly shaved pussy. Her skin felt impossibly soft. Her fingers trailed along her swollen entrance, already slick with arousal.

What was going on? This wasn't like her at all. At least, that's what she had thought initially, but every movement she made now just seemed so natural... so instinctive. She'd never felt that before with any other lover.

Jim's desperate kisses left her mouth and began to trail along her jaw line, before steadily moving down her neck, between her breasts, down to her hot centre. Grinning up at her widely, Moriarty gently pulled her hand away from herself before spreading her pussy lips wide. Triumph settled in his expression as he observed her glistening folds.

Maybe this is what Molly was. What she really was. Hopelessly attracted to masterminds, men whose intelligence and prowess far exceeded her own. Men who were virtually void of empathy. Men who scarcely returned her affections. Men who made her feel like she didn't exist.

One thing was suddenly and startlingly certain, however. She definitely existed now. One of these men was about to fuck her senseless. He wanted her so badly she could feel his desire, his need in every touch they shared. Her head snapped back and her back arched suddenly, as his warm, flat tongue made its way through her slit, lapping up her wetness vigorously. Molly's hand found its way to his head, gently running her fingers through his clean, neatly slicked hair, ruffling it slightly. That was when she realized she liked it when he looked ruffled. It suited his personality better.

What was she thinking? Instigating sex with the Consulting Criminal. She was revolted with herself, but at that moment all she could feel was warmth of his mouth, and her desperate, burning need. Her guard was down, and Sherlock crept back into her mind. Her hips bucked unexpectedly shocking herself with an instant wave of gratification. Then it was Sherlock's head between her thighs, and the image pushed her gasping over the edge. 

Her orgasm rumbled through her body like a tidal wave. Arms shaking, on the verge of collapse, Molly was dragged back to reality by Moriarty's hum of surprise.

"Interesting..." He muttered, before gazing up into her dazed eyes, pride plastering his expression. "I love seeing you so riled up. Your _enthusiasm_ is refreshing."

"Why are you doing all of this?" Molly managed, chest still heaving as the aftershocks of her orgasm began to still. Her legs felt like rubber, but her visions of Sherlock left her feeling cold and empty. "Why haven't you killed me yet?"

Moriarty's eyes darkened, but Molly stood her ground. Standing up abruptly and straightening his tie, he hovered over her, eyes raking over her exhausted and limp form. "Come now, Molly, don't be boring." He muttered, extending a hand to help her up. Defiantly she refused, gathering herself up and glaring into his eyes. He chuckled softly.

"I'm serious. You cooked me breakfast this morning, and allowed me to bathe. I feel more like a house guest than a hostage." Her eyes snapped about the room, examining her expensive and elegant surroundings. "Where am I?" she dared, struggling to keep her voice steady. "This is not what I was expecting."

"Of course not." Moriarty grinned. "Where do you think you are, pet?" There was an odd glint in his eye, like he was waiting for her to put the pieces together. She paused to think.

The room she occupied in the basement was not horrible at all. Despite it's lack of furnishing aside from her bed, it looked recently finished. And while she was carried up to the bathroom she noticed hanging frames along the walls, marble floors, and curious looking artifacts in glass cases were scattered sporadically along the hallways. Realization suddenly dawned on her, and she was genuinely shocked at the results of her analysis.

"Is this... your flat?" She inquired, eyes widening. Moriarty's confirmation came in a low, satisfied hum. He clapped his hands together gleefully.

"It's our flat now, pet. And if you behave yourself well enough I have a room prepared for you upstairs. Gorgeous view, expansive wardrobe and a nice cozy four poster bed to rest your pretty little head on."

Molly struggled to keep her horror hidden. He seemed to be under the impression that she would be staying with him. Forever. Her desire for escape doubled. She needed to see Sherlock's face again, even if it was just one more time. She refused to let herself believe that this was her life now. She needed to get out.

"No need to fret, Molls. Do as I say and no harm will come to you, scout's honour." He placed a hand to his chest.

"Why me, though?" She demanded, fighting back tears. Moriarty noted her expression and frowned, almost comically.

"I've decided to experiment with the concept of female companionship." He stated simply. "You seemed the most obvious candidate, mainly because in having you, I took something from Sherlock." Hearing his name made her flinch slightly. Moriarty grinned. "Also a pathologist on board means you'll serve numerous purposes, besides the obvious." He licked his lips seductively. Molly turned away. "When I said you belonged to me, I wasn't playing. This is your home now."

Her eyes then shut tight, tears streaming down her cheeks. She folder her arms across her chest, biting her lip to keep herself from sobbing. Moments later she felt something brush across her cheeks beneath her eyes and they flew open, startled to find it was his hands cupping her face gently, wiping the tears from her eyes with his thumbs. The action was gentle, and the look in Moriarty's eyes told her he didn't enjoy seeing her cry. He brought his head down slowly and kissed her tenderly on the lips, which instantly resurrected the image of Sherlock in her mind. Instinctively she placed her hands on his firm chest and pushed away from him, hard.

Taking a step back, Molly didn't think to look behind her, and the back of her bare legs slammed into the edge of the tub, causing her to lose her balance. The last thing she saw was the shock on Moriarty's face as she collapsed backwards into the basin. The back of her head collided with the ceramic lip on the opposite side of the tub with a sickening thud. Her eyes roved upwards as her petite frame crumpled.

"_Sherlock..."_ She breathed, and was gone.

Moriarty was in the bathtub beside her an instant later. He hissed as he pulled her head gently up, revealing a substantial amount of blood. The wound on the back of her head had re-opened, and was bleeding profusely. Cursing loudly Moriarty scooped her into his arms, careful not to move her head too much. Her blood began pooling in the bottom of the tub as he carried her soaking, nude frame from the bathroom, heels clicking on the marble floor as he swept into his living room, where sat a couple of his goons. Roaring for them to call a doctor, ignoring the shocked expression on their faces, he settled down onto one of his luxurious black leather couches, cradling Molly's limp form in his lap and lowering his head to her chest, listening intently. She was still breathing. He felt her pulse next, which was weak, but still there.

Two of his men scrambled from the room, leaving the third standing there, looking stupid.

"A TOWEL. NOW." He roared, and the third was gone in an instant. Glancing down at Molly's pale face, his jaw cracked from tension. "Stupid girl." He groaned down at her. "Never a dull moment though, I suppose." He continued, brushing her hair out of her eyes, he noticed his hands were dark with her blood. For some reason he then recalled his encounter with Sherlock at the pool.

"I don't like getting my hands dirty." That much hadn't changed. His lip curled in disgust. Glaring down at her again, he whispered in her ear, "You can't die yet, Molly Hooper. I'm not finished with you." Although the idea of Sherlock Holmes pursuing him fueled by revenge piqued his interest, the thought occurred to him that he didn't want Molly to die. He genuinely wanted her. He hadn't been bored a moment since her arrival, and he absolutely adored ravishing her on a regular basis.

That's when the idea struck him.


	5. fever to tell

I have a tiny update for you! Big thanks to all you wonderful, wonderful sherlolly-ers who left me comments! They make me smile like an idiot. SRSLY GUISE. Lemme know what you think!  
>ANYWAY there's no warning on this, aside from mean words and dark themes.<br>DISCLAIMER: all of dis belongs to ACD, Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat. Not me.  
>I hope you liiike,<p>

It had been three days, and despite endless hours spent searching, asking favors and scouring London's streets on foot, there wasn't a trace of Molly to be found. No clues, no whispers, nothing.

It had been three days, three days with no word from Mycroft, no leads, and no trace of St. Bart's mousy pathologist. Sherlock hadn't eaten, slept nor shaved during this time, and John was at his wit's end. Keeping Sherlock away from cigarettes and as of more recent, a more serious vice had become a full time occupation.

"John," Sherlock snapped from his perch on his armchair, his gaunt, unshaven face twisted in frustration. "Anything from Lestrade?" It was the third time he'd asked in the last hour.

"Of course not," John sighed in exasperation, "if I'd gotten anything I would have said so. This isn't healthy, Sherlock. You need to eat something." Sherlock ignored this completely.

"We've checked every abandoned warehouse, dark tavern and old factory in London," He seethed through steepled fingers. "Lestrade's men have nothing, although that's to be expected, considering most of them are morons,"

"And still nothing from Mycroft." John muttered. "Maybe he's taken her somewhere outside of London?"

"Impossible. He has too much going on here; it's the center of his web. Besides, I would have been informed of that. Homeless network." His tone was dismissive, but his eyes were hard. "He's still in London. The question is _where._" John rose to his feet, and headed towards the kitchen.

Sherlock noted the sound of the kettle being switched on, the tinkling of glass as John rooted around the lab equipment for dishes. He returned a few moments later, plate of biscuits in hand. Impatiently the stout, shorter man shoved the plate into Sherlock's lap, interrupting his concentration. He absently glanced down at the plate of biscuits and then back up into the doctor's expectant gaze.

"It's been three days, Sherlock. Eat. NOW." John's tone was forceful, urgent. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We've been over this, John. Not until we find her."

"And what if we don't find her?" John snapped. Sherlock's brows knitted, expression startled, and hurt. John instantly regretted his outburst. "Listen," He continued, "I don't mean that. But if you want to help... Molly," He sounded slightly hoarse, "You need to eat. You need to sleep. You need to stay strong for her, don't you understand?" The icy gaze that held him in place suddenly dropped to the floor. "Please, Sherlock. She needs you. I need you." With a snarl, Sherlock jammed a biscuit into his mouth. John grinned.

"Sherlock, there's something at the door for you! A package!" Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up the stairs, interrupting their exchange. The two shared a glance before bolting down the stairs, plate of biscuits all but forgotten.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock acknowledged as they approached her in the front hallway. He held his hand outstretched for the medium sized bundle she was holding to her chest. She placed it in his hands before reaching up to touch his face. Sherlock stiffened at the unexpected contact.

"You really should take better care of yourself, Sherlock." Her tone was chastising, but concerned. "You look wretched, you know." Her fingers trailed lightly across his stubble. Sherlock snorted, grasping her frail hand in his.

"Come now, Mrs. Hudson." He sighed, exasperated. "It's nothing you haven't seen before, now is it?" He grinned at her, but her expression remained concerned. 

"This is different." She muttered before silently returning to her apartment. John and Sherlock stared after her for a moment, and shared an apprehensive look.

"I must get that doorbell fixed," She reminded herself as the two thundered back up the stairs to their living room. Sherlock placed the package on the living room table beside John's laptop, appraising it eagerly.

"Is it from him?" John whispered. They both knew the answer. "Do you think it's safe to open?"

"I have no idea." Sherlock hummed, analyzing the crude handwriting on the box. No return address, of course. The box felt light, but full. So Moriarty decided he wanted to play again. Something in Sherlock leapt with anticipation. The game was back on. That meant the trail was no longer cold.

John hovered beside him as he produced his switchblade and carefully sliced the box open. Gently pulling the flaps aside, he reached in, hands clasping something rough, ragged and crusty in texture. His heart stopped as he produced what appeared to be a towel, stained and hardened with a dark brown substance. John swore loudly as Sherlock unfolded the blood soaked fabric to its full size. The towel had obviously been wet when it was placed in the small cardboard box.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, he was now swaying slightly on his feet. He felt light headed. A moment later his mobile vibrated in his pocket. He gently laid the darkened towel back into the box before producing his phone and opening his new text.

_Who knew such a tiny pathologist could make such a BIG mess? – JM_

Sherlock was stunned. "No," He whispered, allowing the mobile to slide from his hands onto the floor. This couldn't be the end. Molly Hooper could not be dead. They hadn't done anything to save her. Three days had passed, and nothing had been accomplished. She meant so much more than that, to all of them, so why hadn't there been more of a struggle? John picked up the phone from the floor and read the text.

"Oh god," he murmured. "Sherlock, I-" he glanced up and noticed that Sherlock was gone, as was the box. John heard the front door slam before collapsing into his chair, stunned. He cradled his head in his hands. 

"_Shit._"

Molly was in St. Bart's Lab. At least, that's what it looked like. The lighting of the room seemed odd, everything had a faint glow to it. She must have let her mind wander and blanked, seemingly in the middle of an autopsy. She glanced down at the scalpel in her hand and the opened chest of a 30 or so year old brunette Caucasian female.

Molly shook her head violently. If Stamford had walked in on her in this state he surely would not be impressed. She sighed heavily, considering the hours she had worked during the week. She hadn't gotten much sleep, and was on call 24/7. She felt completely drained. "What have we here," She murmured quietly to the corpse, leaning over the victim's open ribcage and examining her heart. There were deep, thick gashes carved into the organ. Molly gasped.

This was impossible. Molly had only just opened this chest cavity herself, as far as she could tell before making any incisions there were no scars, no previous surgery's or injuries that could make out. Removing the heavy organ painstakingly with the scalpel, Molly brought it beneath her overhead light for further inspection. What she saw gouged into the side of the heart made her blood run cold.

"_WHORE"_

That instant, the doors on the opposite end of the room opened with a bang. Molly spun around, coming face to face with her favorite consulting detective. She grinned despite herself, gazing at him expectantly.

Sherlock looked displeased, to say the least. His expression was slightly hostile as his eyes raked over her, clearly analyzing her appearance.

"What do you need?" Molly heard herself say. She bit her tongue immediately after. Why had she said that? Sherlock's gaze snapped back to her warm eyes. He seemed... colder than usual.

"You've slept with him then?" His voice was low, unfeeling. Molly blinked.

"Sorry?" She had no idea what he was talking about.

"You had sex with Jim Moriarty." It was a statement, not a question.

Molly remembered, then. She remembered Jim Moriarty's lips on hers, the warmth of his skin, throbbing inside of her, filling her up. She took a step back, covering her mouth with her hand. Sherlock's expression was one of disgust, now.

"I trusted you." He spat. He sounded hurt.

"Sherlock, I-" Molly spluttered. She had no idea what was going on.

"He tried to kill everyone we love. He tried to kill _me._ And you fucked him." Molly was shocked by his venomous tone. She had never heard him swear before. It sounded... wrong, coming from his lips. She paused, unsure of what to say. Snarling at her silence, Sherlock abruptly spun on his heel towards the lab doors, coat billowing behind him.

"Sherlock, wait!" Molly cried. There were tears in her eyes, and she caught a sob in her throat before it managed to escape. He stopped and turned, glaring at her expectantly. "I had to." She choked, remembering vividly the experience now. "He was going to kill me. I hated it!" Sherlock just shook his head.

"No you didn't." His eyes were sad. A moment later Molly was alone again, wringing her hands furiously, tears of shame burning her cheeks. She had enjoyed sex with Jim Moriarty, but only the part of her that had been starved for human contact for so long. Besides, it wasn't as though she had any _control_ over the situation, but if so, why the guilt? Did she feel guilty because she _had_ enjoyed it, or because she had wanted it for so long? Either way Molly was on the brink of hysteria.

She turned back to the dead woman on the slab and screamed; dropping her scalpel and taking an enormous leap back from the corpse. Molly was face to face with... herself. The generic looking 30 something brunette had _her face._ _Her_ body was on the slab, chest open, heart only recently torn from her separated ribcage. Stumbling backwards, desperate to move away, far away, she knocked into the stand, which held the dead girl's most vital organ. Her heart. With a sharp crash the tray scattered across the concrete floor, her heart leaving a bloody trail as it rolled slowly towards her feet. She backed up further as it stopped dead before her on the ground, the carving: "_WHORE_" face up.

Attempting to gain control of her breathing rate, Molly gaped at the mangled organ, chest heaving. A few minutes passed, but she found herself rooted to the spot, staring at the bloody mess on the floor. A soft chuckle brushed past her ear and she gasped, spinning around and finding herself face to face with Jim Moriarty, an expression of unrestrained glee dancing in his features. How did he get in without her noticing?

"I've been looking for this." He exclaimed, leaning past her still frame and collecting the heart from the floor. "It's a slippery little sod, but it belongs to me." His eyes affixed to hers. Molly was unexpectedly indignant.

"That does _not_ belong to you." She snapped, ignoring the thudding of her own heart in her ears. Her pulse was growing faster by the second. "It belongs to her." She gestured back towards the corpse. Moriarty's grin grew wider.

"And who do you suppose that is?" His deep Irish drawl was amused. His eyes were piercing. "Have you noticed any resemblance?" Molly froze.

"I-it's _not_-" She stammered. 

"Oh, but it _is._" Moriarty's tone was mocking.

Molly's heartbeat was deafening now. She felt like any minute it would burst out through her ribcage, or she would collapse dead on the floor. Gasping, she clutched at her chest, twisting the fabric of her cardigan. What was happening? Where was this sudden, sharp pain coming from? Knees trembling, Molly struggled to maintain her composure, staring wordlessly at Moriarty's blood soaked hands.

"This belongs to me, Molly. Don't ever forget that," Moriarty smirked. Molly suddenly noticed warmth flowing down her chest and running along her stomach. Glancing downwards, she noticed what appeared to be a gaping hole in her cardigan, which was now soaked in her blood? Collapsing onto her knees, she blearily gazed up to find Moriarty looming above her, her still beating heart in one hand, a switchblade in the other. His expression had become smug. That was when her head collided with the floor, vision fading into nothing.


	6. beating like a hammer

**Hello my lovelies! I bring you another hunk of sherlolly drama.  
>Many thanks for the wonderful reviews! Your feedbackcriticism/interest in this story is tremendously appreciated and inspiring!**

**Unfortunately I have a rather brutal chapter here for you. Poor Molly will get her happy ending, I assure you, but in the meantime I've been absolutely dreadful to her. I understand that the abrasiveness of this chapter may be quite off-putting. And so...  
>WARNINGS: this chapter includes violence, drugs, non-con intimacy and a whole lot of angsty angst. It's basically the most brutal shit I've ever written.<br>If you're still hanging on after this, THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU.  
>The worst is nearly over. I promise.<strong>

Sherlock's pale eyes swept across St. Bart's lab, narrowing as they settled on a young male pathologist, late twenties, smoker, married with a female infant. This was as far as he could tell from the distance at which he stood, gloved fingers clasped around the blood sodden cardboard box he clutched to his chest.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, startling the man.

"I'm Doctor Stevens. I'm covering Molly Hooper's list while she's... away." His voice was hesitant, awkward. The man didn't live in London, he was probably a transfer Pathologist from Cardiff, judging by his belt. He paused for a moment before squinting at Sherlock's face, recognition flashing in his dark, sleep deprived eyes.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and I need you out of this lab for the next 2 hours at the very least. You should go home and rest Doctor Stevens, your wife won't make you sleep on the couch again if you make it home in time for supper." Sherlock flashed him with an impatient smirk.

"Uh... How..."

"Never mind that now, Doctor Stevens, you really do look haggard. It would be best if you pick up something on the way home, flowers perhaps? Skip the visit to your mistress' abode and go straight home. She'll come around eventually." The other man gaped at him before setting down his stainless steel instruments.

"I'll just be off then," His voice was defeated. He trudged past Sherlock who stood ready with the door open; hands clasped tightly around the box, roguish smile playing on his cupid bow lips.

"Enjoy you're evening, Doctor." The moment the door swung shut the smile vanished from Sherlock's face, replaced by his usual concrete expression. He needed to work quickly, and remain uninterrupted. Ignoring another text from John, he set about examining the box and the crusty blood soaked towel, laying it on the lab table before gently removing sliced of the material with a pair of scissors before separating his samples and preparing them for separate tests.

Within 20 minutes Sherlock had deduced based on the material evidence that the blood on the towel was indeed that of Molly Hooper's, and that the towel itself possessed several qualities that made it extremely valuable; boasting authentic Egyptian cotton and a miraculously high thread count. Also, Molly Hooper was not dead when this towel was sent to him. The splatter pattern on the towel and the amount that had soaked into the fabric was obviously from a deep wound, although the quantity was inconsistent with that of a fatal blow. A few of Molly's hairs were trapped between the fabric of the towel, along with threads that did not belong to the towel itself. After further analysis Sherlock found the threads to be the remnants of surgical stitches.

The towel had been pressed firmly to the base of her skull to stop the bleeding, not to mop up the mess following her death, as Moriarty had indicated in his text. For a fleeting moment, Sherlock paused, closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to hope. He took a deep breath, desperately reigning in the irrational hidden emotions he had fought so desperately to tuck away since she was taken. This was the first shred of tangible evidence of her possible survival, and no matter how small and inconsequential it seemed, it was the only thing his mind could cling to. Rationality had been in short supply since this incident had begun, and although Sherlock had maintained his frosty, calculating composure, one more push in the wrong direction would surely have him spiraling over the edge and back into his old, destructive habits.

Shaking his head abruptly, Sherlock desperately attempted to clear his mind. John's past words echoed around the edges of his fragile psyche. "_You need to stay strong for her, don't you understand?" _ Molly Hooper was alive, and if he was going to find her that way, he needed to keep his mind clear, and sharp. He needed to stay sober and feed himself, sleep and keep his energy up. Unwillingly, his mind called up a memory of her, of them together in her flat following his fake suicide. His mind conjured the image of her face grinning brilliantly, candlelight illuminating her flawless, pallid complexion, sincere adoration shining in her eyes.

The weeks following the incident were the absolute worst. With a tarnished name, no cases to work on and a tiny living space that had quickly evolved into a cage in his eyes, Sherlock's mind began to turn on him. Refusing to allow Molly to see him as depressed and hopeless as he felt, he simply behaved as he would any other time, taking out his frustration and sadness on her in small increments. However, most of his aggression and guilt manifested in a familiar urge, a strong all consuming craving that threatened to drive him mad.

He missed John. He missed his work. And now the entire world believed him a fraud, a psychopath who was nearly responsible for the deaths of two children. Ordinary people are so stupid, so easily led astray. Sherlock Holmes did not believe in heroes, nor did he acknowledge himself as one. However, he was not the villain everyone believed him to be. Slowly the newspaper clippings and Internet articles he came across on Molly Hooper's sofa in the wee hours of the morning began to wear him down. Without John's authoritative presence and steel hard resolve, there had been nothing to prevent a relapse.

Molly had found him, the night he decided to end it. She searched London for him for hours, checking all the spots John and Mycroft had informed her were his old haunts immediately following Christmas. They thought it best at the time to inform everyone Sherlock had "relations" with, considering they were so few.

The lights were so bright when she found him, splayed across a filthy motel bed at three or so in the morning, eyes roving back into his skull as his body seized and his heart thudding dangerously fast, slipping into cardiac arrest. Lines of white powder were neatly arranged on the coffee table in front of the crappy motel television, which only had 3 working channels. The memory was so vivid, however the only pieces he could make out coherently was that of Molly's face, tears streaming down her cheeks in earnest, sitting atop his chest and sobbing silently.

Waking abruptly to a blinding light, Sherlock groaned, startled to find breathing surprisingly difficult. His head ached as he attempted to sort out his surroundings, and the string of events that brought him here.

"Molly?" He choked, coughing instantly at the sensation of daggers sliding down his throat. He noted the temperature of the room and the lighting and recognized his surroundings almost instantly. "W-why am I in the morgue?"

"Oh god, you're alive!" Molly collapsed heavily onto his chest, sobbing thickly into the crook of his neck. Unable to move, Sherlock waited patiently for her sobs of relief to subside. She eventually pulled back from him gingerly, slipping easily off of the table. He watched her silently all the while, fascinated by her emotive response towards his consciousness. Her face flushed a deep red as he appraised her.

Sherlock and Molly had been living together for weeks following his dramatic leap from St. Bart's roof, and in that time, Molly had never willingly laid a finger on him. She actually seemed intimidated by his closeness to her most of the time, taking steps back whenever he leaned in to her, shaking silently whenever his hand had reached for her for any reason, handing over groceries he had requested, or bringing him a mug of coffee. The liquid would reverberate fractionally as he extended his reach for it, only stilling once it had been completely transferred from her grasp into his.

Now here she was, Doctor Molly Hooper, the impressively young pathologist from St. Bart's, desperately pounding away at his chest just moments before, firm thighs straddling his hips as she breathed life back into him.

"How did we get here?" He asked quietly, throat dry and cracked, head pounding, chest aching. A cold sweat had developed, perspiration and the shakes accompanying what felt like tiny feet scrambling over his entire body.

"You aren't that heavy, you know. I paid a cabbie to keep his mouth shut and help me into the car. I needed medical equipment and a quiet place, and fast. You had so much Sherlock, I didn't expect your heart to handle the stress, and time was ticking. I brought you in through the drop off dock in the back and got to work. " Molly's voice was weak, exhausted and emotionally frail. The stress she was under was physically evident: hair carelessly swept into a loose bun, dark under eye circles, chest soaked in what could only be her tears.

Sitting up slowly, Sherlock had winced in pain and shook involuntarily; his strength had completely abandoned him. Molly's voice was thick when she spoke again, obviously fighting more tears. Sherlock was having trouble concentrating on anything other than her.

"You are so bloody stupid, Sherlock Holmes." She began, anger bubbling from somewhere within, behind the panic and the frailty and the fear. "How dare you think that you can just... exit, unexpectedly. You don't get to walk away when we've come so far, accomplished so much." Her heavy gaze shone with disappointment.

"I didn't mean-" Sherlock began, before being cut off by a skeptical snort from Molly.

"Shut up, Sherlock." He said quietly, closing her eyes. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear it. Ordinary people kill themselves, Sherlock. Boring people, remember?" Her tone grew incendiary and provocative. He felt a flush of anger before unconsciously tightening his fists at his sides. He looked away for a moment before a warm touch electrified his cheek, her tiny hand gently pulling his face back to gaze into her eyes, which had softened slightly. "Now," she whispered, firmly holding Sherlock's rapt attention, "Get up, get dressed and come home. I won't tolerate anymore of this, Sherlock. You need to stay strong for him. You need to finish what you started."

Sherlock's entire demeanor changed in that instant. Nodding silently, he stood with difficulty, and the two shambled back outside to her waiting cab, limbs tangled as Molly, stronger than she looked, supported his tall, lean frame the entire way.

Wordlessly, the exhausted pathologist pulled his limp frame towards her bedroom shortly after collapsing in through her front door, both greeted by the affectionate Toby, mewling for attention and probably a late night snack. After a few minutes of struggling through the apartment and knocking a few photographs from her hallway walls, Molly left Sherlock alone in her bed, covers pulled over his weak, shaking frame.

The weeks that followed the incident Molly made sure to check up on Sherlock frequently, engaging him in heated debate, bringing home details from current cases and samples to analyze and experiment on, "borrowing" some equipment from the hospital to keep him occupied. One evening Molly arrived home late from work, she had burst through the front door to find dinner neatly prepared and laid out on her tiny kitchen table, a single candle lit and the apartment spotless for the first time... since she had brought him home to her flat the evening of the fall.

The two had dined together silently, enjoying each other's presence comfortably, when halfway through the meal, Sherlock had raised his gaze to meet hers, silently requesting her attention. Downing her last gulp of wine nervously, Molly placed the empty glass back down and waited expectantly for him to speak. After a few tense moments, his lips parted, and in the most sincere, most regret laden voice Molly had ever heard leave his mouth, announced, "Molly, I am so sorry." She nearly dropped her fork in surprise. Noticing her reaction, he continued softly: "What I did was weak and foolish, and you... saved me. In every way a person can be saved. I owe you my life. I owe you everything I am." His voice was clear, confident and un-hesitating.

"You owe me nothing." Molly fought desperately not to stutter. "Just p-promise never to frighten me like that again."

"I promise." His response came quickly, and she visibly relaxed. Her brilliant smile had returned then, spreading easily across her tired face and shaving years off of her appearance. Her smile transformed her, Sherlock decided, grinning back unabashedly. Sincerely. The way he grinned at John in Buckingham Palace. He noticed a tug in his chest when he realized how beautiful Molly Hooper was when she was happy. When she smiled, she absolutely glowed. He felt something else then, something like a tug in his abdomen, a strong and sudden pull.

He knew it then, and he knew it now. Molly Hooper had him that evening and ever since. He pushed her unconscious claim on him forcibly into the back of his mind, noting subconsciously the dangers and stupidity of sentiment. Burying his emotions deep, he had all but forgotten, and hid the fact from others as well as he hid it from himself. Somehow Moriarty _knew_ the way he felt about Molly. His words at the pool during their first face to face encounter echoed in his head.

"I will burn _the heart_out of you."

It was a promise Moriarty had always intended to keep. Sherlock should have known; he should have been aware that Molly was in danger that very night he realized how beautiful she was. He cursed his stubborn nature. It seemed only logical that he reject sentiment at the time, but Moriarty had seen through his thick veil somehow. He had known, and he used this knowledge to his advantage while Sherlock gallivanted around London, solving cases and pretending that nothing had changed.

Unaware of the time that had passed during his silent reverie, Sherlock bristled when the doors of the morgue burst open behind him. "I'm fine, John." He murmured without bothering to face his concerned companion. A pause, followed by a few short steps and John was at his side, brows furrowed, lips perched slightly. "She's still alive." Sherlock declared with confidence, staring intently through the lens of his microscope.

"But the text," John spluttered, eyes widening in shock. "How could you possibly know-" He was cut off abruptly by Sherlock's mobile, which he deftly retrieved from his breast pocket, answering the call with a concrete expression.

"What is it, Mycroft?" John was floundering, torn somewhere between joy and denial, silently praying that Sherlock was right, if only for his sake.

"Ritzy part of town. Must fit in quite nicely there," Sherlock was saying, followed by a curt but clear "Thank you, Mycroft." He slipped the phone back into his jacket before standing abruptly, catching John off guard. "Ring Lestrade and inform him that we have the address. Mycroft is forwarding him the details." Sherlock pulled his coat on swiftly and brushed past a frozen Doctor Watson before bursting through the doors and into the hospitals corridors.

"Where are we going?" John called after him, snapping to attention and catching up quickly. Sherlock rounded on him and grinned widely.

"We're going to see where the devil sleeps."

Molly's feverish dreams were convoluted and recurrent. Guilt seemed to be the general theme of her theatrical subconscious, guilt, and dread of coming to terms with her actions with the Consulting Criminal. Her conflicted and mixed emotions haunted her even as she woke, the memories of her dreams faded, but the feelings associated with them were strong as ever, even as she struggled to open her eyes.

Forgetting herself, she attempted to lift her head, only to be viciously held into place by a strong and sudden pain at the base of her skull. "Jesus," she breathed, her cracked lips and dry throat causing her weak voice to catch in a raspy, unrecognizable groan. The sharp crippling pain in her head retreated slightly into a heavy pounding, completely robbing her of her senses.

If the pain hadn't been so intense she may have started sobbing, but even furrowing her brows sparked a sharp stabbing sensation that danced along the side of her head. Battling not to clench her teeth, Molly became slightly aware of something being pressed to her lips. Instinctively her jaw locked tightly, offering what little resistance she was capable of.

"It's water. Drink." A gruff voice broke through her muddled panicked thoughts. Hesitantly she parted her lips slightly, unable to resist the promise of cool soothing water rushing down her throat. She nearly sighed in relief as the cold liquid eased the discomfort in her throat, and she drank greedily without pause until the glass was pulled from her and she gasped for breath.

Cracking her eyes open for the second time, Molly attempted to take in her surroundings. The room was dimly lit, _thank god,_she thought earnestly, any bright lights would be excruciating at the moment. She was nestled into a comfortable bed, a thick warm comforter pulled up to her chin. The man who allowed her water was sitting in a chair at her bedside, glaring down at her with slight contempt, or maybe it was just boredom.

His sandy blonde hair and peppery stubble added to his overall menacing appearance, big muscled, wide-set shoulders and bulging chest covered by a tight fitting black polo, he also wore loose cargo pants, tucked into mid-calf combat boots. Molly's squinted gaze wandered back up to his face, acknowledging briefly that the man before her was quite obviously handsome, despite the long, deep scars that marred his complexion and the cold, cruel eyes that gazed directly back at her.

"Where-" She croaked, grimacing in pain.

"Don't talk." The man snapped, boot tapping the floor impatiently. With one swift movement he had pulled an intimidating combat blade from its holster at his waist. Noticing her eyes widen slightly in fear, his lip curled into a cruel sneer. He edged his chair closer to her bedside, and Molly desperately fought the urge to scramble backwards, away from him. She felt helpless, crippled by the throbbing pain in her head, and paralyzed with fear at this new presence, obviously one of Moriarty's men. She felt her heart rate increase substantially as he leaned in over her, his warm breath brushing over her face.

"The Boss seems to think you're special." He hissed, eyes narrowing. His voice was so low, so dangerous. Molly's eyes never left the blade in his hand, knuckles whitened indicating his fiercely tightened grip on the weapon. "I don't agree." He was so close to her now, she could smell his spicy cologne. If her head weren't so screwed up she probably wouldn't have been idly considering what use one of Moriarty's thugs would have for things like cologne. She unconsciously wrinkled her nose as the scent invaded her nostrils, eliciting stabbing pains in her temples.

She shrunk back into the covers only slightly, but the cold, unfeeling man noticed this and grinned, seemingly satisfied with her fearful reaction to his close proximity. "To be perfectly honest with you," He whispered menacingly, "I think you've been more trouble than you're worth. He didn't think you'd be waking up anytime soon, and now I'm on babysitting duty." The corner of his lips tugged up slightly. "Taking care of Moriarty's fuck toy is not what I'd consider to be a... _productive_evening. But then again..." His eyes flicked away from hers and across her blanketed frame. "One only needs their imagination, don't they?"

Suddenly the man was out of his chair, hovering over her. He was huge. He clamped a hand over her mouth and nose firmly, before She had a chance to cry out in alarm. Molly's eyes were wild with fear, her heart thudding violently against her ribcage. Her tiny hands grasped his wrist instinctively, muffled cries having little effect. She writhed desperately against his grip, desperately clawing at his massive hand, which was pushing her gently further back into her pillow. Weak, terrified and in pain, she gathered her feet up in a weak attempt to kick her massive assailant, to no avail. Dots began to appear along the edges of her vision, and she knew she only had a few moments of consciousness left.

Impatient and aggravated at her apparent unwillingness to comply, something terrifying flashed in his stormy eyes before he lunged foreword with his other hand, bearing down on her shoulder with his blade. Molly froze at the sensation of five inches of cold steel burying itself in her shoulder. The urge to inhale doubled and her panicked eyes rolled back in agony, screams muffled by his massive hand.

Still gripping the hilt of the blade, the man leaned in close to her ear, voice thick with rage, and something else. "Jim's not here, you know. You're my toy now." Just as Molly began to lose her vision, he released his iron grip on her face. Air rushed into her lungs as she coughed thickly, chest heaving. He may not have suffocated her to the point of blacking out, but she was completely delirious. The excruciating pain in her shoulder and in her oxygen starved lungs left her limp and listless, completely at his mercy. She registered a faint chuckle before his blade was violently torn from her shoulder.

Her ragged scream echoed in the small room she had recognized moments before as her original enclosure. Locked in Moriarty's basement at the mercy of a man she'd never seen before, never even heard of, this is where Molly Hooper's life would end. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she screwed her eyes shut, shocked to feel a slight pang of disappointment in her chest. An unremarkable life ending violently, with no one there to witness it. Her mangled corpse would be the next on the slab in St. Bart's mortuary. She wondered who would perform her autopsy, and briefly hoped her face would remain untouched aside from the mostly faded bruising that lingered on her face and neck left over from her encounter in the alley.

Noticing her mind had drifted elsewhere, the man above her snarled, grabbing her face roughly. "Don't you go anywhere now," He growled. "We're not even at the best part yet. We've got hours to play before Jim gets back, so let's make them worth while, shall we?" Molly felt the warmth of her own blood seep into the fabric of her top, and she opened her eyes slowly, glaring directly into his cold, empty irises. She suddenly felt overcome with rage. If this was how her life would end, it sure as hell wouldn't be according to his agenda. With nothing left to lose; Molly felt a rush of courage, mustering up what little strength still remained. She needed him to kill her. She needed him to lose his temper and quick.

"Jim won't be pleased to find me dead," She rasped, her voice barely audible. Thankfully he had heard her loud and clear. "If you kill me, what makes you think he won't kill you?"

"Jim won't be pleased. You're right about that." The man chuckled, cleaning her blood off his blade absently with a rag before dropping it to the floor. "But you're just his fuck toy. I'm more important. Besides," he grinned widely, "He's been promising me something to play with for _weeks_." With that he grabbed the blanket that covered her and ripped it from her, tossing it into a heap on the floor.

Completely exposed, Molly felt the ever-familiar rush of fear coursing through her veins. She struggled to maintain her placid composure, eyes never leaving his face. Everything hurt. Her vision was still sharply affected by the pain in her head, but she could still recognize the glint in his eyes as they roved up and down her subdued form hungrily. Her heart stopped.

_Not again!_ Her mind screamed as he reached for the top of her shirt, efficiently slicing the material from top to bottom. "No," She gasped, fresh tears making their way down her already tear stained cheeks. "Just kill me, please! Just kill me!" She sobbed as the last of her courage abandoned her. She felt his warm, callused hands grasp her exposed breasts tightly and sobbed even harder. Clearly entertained by her outburst, the man grinned triumphantly, rolling her nipples between his rough fingertips.

"Patience," He hissed, leaning over abruptly and planting his lips firmly on hers. He tasted like cigarettes, Molly noted before sinking her teeth into his plump lower lip. She braced herself as his face tore from hers, his lip bleeding profusely down his chin. She recognized the coppery taste on her lips and reveled momentarily at the shock in his eyes. He clearly hadn't expected this from her. "Now, now," He whispered, dragging the back of his hand across his chin, smearing the blood away gruffly, "if that's how you wanted to play, you should have said so."

Suddenly his hand was planted firmly beneath her breasts, pushing her roughly into the mattress with such force it knocked the wind from her. He swung his leg over her torso, landing heavily on her pelvis, strong muscled thighs locking her legs into place. A small gasp escaped her lips as he bore down on her, one hand wrapping around her throat, the other bringing his combat knife to the edge of her collarbone. Molly closed her eyes as she felt the blade digging mercilessly into her flesh as he dragged it through the trail between her breasts. He was carving her up like a turkey. Suddenly the blade's path stopped abruptly just above her navel, and was replaced by his thick hot tongue as he hunched over her, still straddling her hips. Stopping again just at her collarbone where the gash he carved into her began, he sunk his teeth into the side of her neck, not far where Moriarty's teeth had left a bloody mark not long before.

Molly refused to scream. She just lay there, paralyzed as her blood seeped from her slowly. She had no way of knowing how deep he had carved into her, but she hoped it was deep enough to end her life just a little bit quicker. She shuddered involuntarily at the sound of his lips smacking just beside her ear. His weight was suffocating, and the stench of his cologne was so thick she nearly choked.

She noticed his massive weight shift lower down her torso and flinched slightly as her flimsy boy shorts were torn from her with little resistance. His large hands grasped her calves just below the knees and she heard a sickening moan of satisfaction as her legs were spread wide. Less than two minutes later he was inside her, and Molly's scream of shock and pain was devoured as his lips again found hers.

He was huge, and she wasn't ready. She felt her flesh tear as he drove into her again and again, with no signs of slowing down or stopping. This was a new form of torture she wasn't accustomed to, and as he pounded into her she fought the overwhelming urge to vomit.

She had no concept of time, the only thing she was aware of now was the pain. It could have been minutes or hours, but eventually she felt a rush of heat seep into her as he shuddered inches above her face, releasing himself deep within her before pulling out and climbing off the bed onto the floor once more. Instinctively Molly's battered legs curled up against her bloodied chest, and unable to fight the rolling waves of nausea any longer she rolled to the edge of the bed and heaved onto the floor. With nothing in her stomach aside from the water she imbibed earlier, it ended quickly. Barely registering the sound of the man leaving the room, the lock clicking behind him, she made herself as small as physically possible before her surroundings slowly began to fade, and glorious darkness claimed her.


End file.
